


now I drive alone past your street

by mad_magic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Background becho, Celebrities, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Jealousy, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, inspired by drivers license
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28922895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_magic/pseuds/mad_magic
Summary: “She posted about you,” Wells tells her.Clarke’s heart drops. “What?”“Check her Instagram.”The newest post on Echo’s Instagram is about her. The caption reads:You can try to get under my skin. He’s on mine.This is a nightmare....Clarke writes a song called Driver's License. It all goes wrong from there.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 70
Kudos: 455





	1. now I drive alone past your street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is inspired by that drama on Twitter. Which I have no part of, but find entertaining nonetheless and use for fics. 
> 
> This idea came to me and I had to write it down. 
> 
> Fair warning, Echo is a bitch in this. Not out of character, in my eyes, but Echo fans beware. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

“She posted about you,” Wells tells her.

Clarke’s heart drops. “What?”

“Check her Instagram.”

Wincing to herself, Clarke does that. She prefers to avoid looking at Echo’s social media if she can help it. Her diet promos are painful to see, aimed to make girls like Clarke feel bad about their bodies. The couple selfies with Bellamy are worse.

The newest post on Echo’s Instagram _is_ about her. Subtle, but effective. The post digs into Clarke’s chest like a small, sharp knife.

It’s a photo of Echo and Bellamy. She’s all over him, her arms looped around his neck, and smirking right at the camera.

The caption reads: _You can try to get under my skin. He’s on mine._

This is a nightmare.

It’s bad enough being in love with Bellamy when he sees her as just a friend. She’s learned to live with that, as much as it hurts sometimes. But this she _can’t_ deal with.

The world knows how she feels. Echo knows. With this post, she’s confirming it to her million followers, to all the speculation on Twitter, that Clarke’s song is about Bellamy.

Oh, god. _Bellamy._

Clarke struggles to take her next breath. Panic claws through her lungs. Does Bellamy know? Did Echo tell him about the song?

Before this stupid post, she was safe. Bellamy doesn’t pay attention to Twitter gossip. He would never guess she wrote _Driver’s License_ about him. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell. The song was for _her_. Music is how she processes her feelings.

“Classy, right?” Wells asks in her ear.

In her internal meltdown, Clarke forgot they were on the phone.

“Fuck my life,” she moans. “He has to know now. Wells, how am I supposed to face him?”

“Has he said anything to you?”

“No,” Clarke sighs.

Bellamy has been distant since he started dating Echo. It’s like that—in her mind _toxic_ —relationship is a noose around his neck that has been pulling him farther and farther away from her. Which is part of why Clarke wrote the song in the first place.

She misses him. In a sense, she feels betrayed too. Bellamy swore she would always be important to him. But it’s obvious his priorities lie with his shiny, Instagram-model girlfriend.

He and Clarke don’t talk like they used to, spending hours having deep conversations. Bellamy is her _person_. She tells him everything, calls him after a bad day or a good day or just because something weird happened.

Now, the last time they spoke was when he congratulated her for _Driver’s License_ hitting the top of the charts.

He sent a warm text: _just like we always dreamed. I knew you could do it, Princess._

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Wells offers kindly. “Echo was just being petty.”

"Wishful thinking,” Clarke mutters. “Oh my god. It’s fucking trending!”

Wells groans. “Get off Twitter, Griffin! Don’t look at that shit.”

On her laptop, she has Twitter open. Clarke doesn’t have to search her or Echo’s names to see the thousands of posts.

Strangers on the Internet are talking about Echo’s post and dissecting her lyrics for more clues.

 _You're probably with that brunette girl..._ Yeah. She wasn't subtle with that one. 

Even worse, going through the hashtags takes her down a rabbit hole of embarrassment.

They are gifs are her and Bellamy. Taken from behind-the-scenes clips of their TV show and interviews and Con videos.

People are pointing out Clarke’s obvious heart eyes toward Bellamy, made worse by being in slow-motion. The way she laughs louder than everyone else at his dry humor. How many times she touches his arm or his thigh.

Clarke wants to scream. This was all Pre-Becho—as social media has nauseatingly coined them. Back when Clarke still had a seed of hope that Bellamy could have more-than platonic feelings for her. Back when they were inseparable. 

She would never act like this while Bellamy has a girlfriend. Not on purpose.

If there were some slip-ups…well, she’s _human_.

Her best friend looks like a damn Greek god, has a heart of gold, and is incredibly talented, not to mention intelligent and well-read. How anyone _not_ be in love with Bellamy Blake?

He’s the best actor she knows. The best _person_. Clarke has been hopelessly in love for years, since they started on _Skaikru_ as co-leads. She’s still trying to get over him.

“That’s it,” Clarke decides, scrolling through Twitter, cheeks burning. “I’m changing my name, moving to Paris, and opening a small, tasteful art gallery.”

Wells laughs. “Oh, Clarke. Don’t worry. Let people talk. They’ll move on once the Kardashians do something or Bridgerton gets renewed for Season 2.”

“God willing! I need more Regé-Jean Page in my life.”

“Don’t we all?”

Wells, the great friend he is, talks her down from panicking. He makes her promise she’ll stay off social media that day before they hang up.

Clarke flops back onto her bed. She stares up at the music notes she has pinned to the ceiling of her bedroom and tries to remember the good things.

Releasing her own music has always, always been the dream. Her mother encouraged her into an acting career, taking Clarke to auditions since she was five-years-old. She isn’t ungrateful. Her mom paid for all the acting lessons, the headshots, and played the role of her agent booking auditions.

Sure, sometimes Clarke wishes Abby would just be her _mom_. Sometimes, she’s resentful that Abby pushed her into acting because her mom took the practical route of going to med school and denying her own dreams.

Her mom ignored Clarke’s interest in writing songs. Abby said that anyone could be a pop star these days. It took true talent and dedication to earn an Oscar.

Despite all of that, Clarke did it. She released a song, the lyrics bleeding from a broken heart onto the page. A song that is number one on Billboard charts and Spotify right now. A song that was noticed by _Taylor fucking Swift_.

Yeah, Clarke screamed and fangirled over that so loud, her mom thought she was being murdered.

Clarke reaches for her phone, abandoned on the end of her bed. It’s blowing up with notifications she has to mute. There are a bunch of texts from friends. Clarke only skims them and winces, getting the gist.

At least Octavia called Echo a bitch. That makes her feel a little bit better.

But there is nothing from the person she actually wants to hear from. Bellamy hasn’t called. He hasn’t sent a single message.

Maybe that _is_ the message. Tears burn in the back of her throat at the thought. Bellamy wants nothing to do with her.

He doesn’t care about the song explaining her heartbreak over losing him to someone else. He chooses Echo. He chooses silence.

Clarke rolls off the bed, wiping at her damp eyes with the back of her wrist. She needs to get out of this room, away from social media and the old photos of her and Bellamy on the wall, taunting her.

Clarke snatches up her keys and leaves.

* * *

She drives by Bellamy's neighborhood.

Not intentionally. She's driving aimlessly through the streets of their suburb, blocking out her thoughts with music. Music is the true love of her life, she's decided. 

They live in adjacent neighborhoods, less than ten minutes away from each other. Clarke is driving and singing to herself when the houses start to look increasingly familiar.

By then, it's too late. She turns onto his street and her foot slows on the gas on its own. She must be a masochist. Or she just misses when she's used to be able to show up here, at any time, and Bellamy would be happy to see her. 

Clarke parks her car on the side of the street. From her spot, she's diagonal to his house. His Rover is in clear view in the circular driveway. Seeing it makes Clarke's gut pinch with nostalgia. 

Bellamy taught her to drive in that car. He sat in the passenger seat, guiding and instructing her, first on these back roads and then on the highway.

He never ran out of patience or got upset when she screwed up. He made her laugh when she got nervous.

Clarke feels an echo of butterflies in her stomach, remembering his large, rough hand folding over hers on the gear shift. It was a pleasure and a torture to have those driving lessons—the highlight of her week for three months. 

Bellamy was the first person she called after getting her license. He was so proud of her. They went out to celebrate that night, just the two of them and ate at her favorite restaurant in L.A. 

Clarke is awash in memories. She nearly bursts out of her skin when there’s a sudden knock on the window.

Echo is standing there, arms crossed, glaring at her through the glass.

Oh, fuck.

She looks perfect, as always. All tan and toned, wearing yoga pants and a white tank, her hair piled up in a bun.

Clarke’s self-esteem always takes a hit when she sees Echo—her flawless skin and the slender body that Clarke can never have.

She has curves, a soft, round tummy, thick dimpled thighs, and stretch marks on her breasts.

It has taken Clarke years to get to a place where she's comfortable with her body. She’ll never have Echo’s model frame. That’s not her body type. Clarke has accepted this, but it’s hard to not compare herself sometimes to Bellamy’s girlfriend.

Clarke turns her music down before lowering the window. Her heart is pounding, caught at sitting here staring at Bellamy’s house like a sad creeper.

“What are you doing here?” Echo demands.

Clarke’s lips pinch. She’s surprised the icy hostility coming off of Echo doesn’t freeze her car over.

“Is Bellamy home?”

She knows he is. This is just a reminder that this is _Bellamy’s_ house. Not hers. Last Clarke checked they don’t live together. Echo has no right to play gatekeeper.

Echo smirks, her expression turning pointed and smug. “He’s still in bed. We have been all morning.”

Clarke resists a shudder, her nails digging into the steering wheel. What a bitch. She said that just to rub it in and make Clarke uncomfortable. Well. Mission accomplished.

The thing is, Clarke has tried to like Echo. She tried to give the woman the benefit of the doubt from the start.

But it’s no use. There isn’t much to like. Clarke fails to see what Bellamy sees in her.

Echo is a spiteful person. Even before the song came out, Echo seems to relish rubbing her relationship in Clarke’s face.

Then, there’s the fact Echo is an Influencer on Instagram and that is reason enough to hate her. She makes her living out of promoting shit like diet teas and posting Photoshopped pics of herself on expensive trips. Her whole brand is toxic and Clarke can’t stand it.

Clarke has no interest in chatting with Echo, on this street, or anywhere else.

She reaches for the gear shift. “Okay. Well, I’ll just—”

Echo’s hand grips the door’s side as she leans in, eyes narrowed. “Everyone thinks you’re so innocent. ‘Poor Clarke’. I know what you’re doing.”

Clarke stops. “And what is that?” she asks, both indignant and curious to hear this.

“It’s a cry for attention,” Echo says coldly, matter-of-fact. “You think you can write a sad song about how _heartbroken_ you are and Bellamy is going to dump me and chase after you. It’s pathetic.”

Blood roars in her ears. Clarke feels her face burn, her skin prickling with a mix of embarrassment and anger.

She wants to grab Echo’s bun and bash her face on the hood of her car. Better yet, she wants Bellamy to hear how his precious girlfriend talks when he’s not around.

“He’s not a toy, Echo,” Clarke tells her furiously. “Bellamy can make his own choices.”

Echo nods. “You’re right. He can. And he _chose_ to be with me.”

Clarke’s fingers wrap around the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. She knows. God, she knows without Echo having to say it.

Hearing it out loud makes her chest twist like her heart is trying to break through her skin and run far from this awful conversation.

“I lied,” Echo says flatly, startling her. “Bellamy isn’t in bed. He saw you out here. He sent me to talk to you.”

No. She’s lying. Right? Bellamy wouldn’t…

Unless he knows. He knows she has feelings for him and he doesn’t want to see her. The song made him uncomfortable. That’s why he’s been distant, out of reach. He’s avoiding her.

Tears sting Clarke’s eyes, burning at the back of her throat. She grits her teeth. She can’t cry here, not in front of _her_.

“Do yourself a favor.” Echo’s voice is soft and pitying now. “Stop chasing after scraps of his attention. Stop embarrassing yourself. Bellamy feels _bad_ for you. You’re just a little girl with a crush, but you need to get over it.”

Clarke stares out the windshield, her bottom lip trembling. In her peripheral vision, Echo walks away, crossing the street and disappearing into the house.

She throws the car into drive and speeds away. The tears spill down her cheeks and blur her vision of the streets they used to drive on together. That’s over now.

* * *

It’s been two weeks since the trends on Twitter. Clarke hopes for the hype to die down when the _Skaikru_ cast gathers for Comic-Con in San Diego. She has to reunite with everyone for their panels and interviews, including Bellamy.

He’s the male lead. Clarke can’t avoid him forever, but she does plan on using Wells as her human shield for as long as possible.

Clarke rides with Wells into San Diego early that morning, sharing the roomy Escalade they’re being transported in. The rest of their cast joining them at the con arrives with them at the hotel they’re staying at. 

Clarke feels the energy and excitement creeping up on her. She _loves_ cons. She loves meeting their fans most of all.

This is the boost she needs after the hell of the past month.

As Wells predicted, the chatter has died down online. For the most part, people have moved on to other celebrity gossip, TV show releases, and new music. The only ones still discussing The Situation with The Song are their cult following, fans of _Skaikru_.

On the plus side, _Driver’s License_ is still topping the charts and being streamed on Spotify. Clarke still can’t believe it sometimes. People actually like her music.

After checking-in, Clarke and Wells head up to their rooms to drop their bags off.

They run into Jasper and Monty in the elevator and get talking. About the character costumes they might see, what panels they’d like to check out if they can, and of course, sharing their annoyance at having to deal with their asshole showrunner for three days.

“What are you guys doing now?” Monty asks as the elevator deposits them in the lobby.

Wells glances at Clarke. “I think we’re gonna grab coffee and breakfast.”

Clarke nods. She’s starving.

Their group parts ways. Clarke doesn’t know what Monty and Jasper are up to, but she suspects a prank. At their last con, they got a copy of Murphy’s room key and snuck in to cover _everything_ in his hotel room in bubble wrap.

Clarke heads across the lobby in step with Wells. That’s when she spots Bellamy.

Her eyes latch onto him first, always. When Bellamy is in a room, everything else becomes blurred, meaningless background noise. There is just him.

God, he looks gorgeous. He has his square-framed glasses on, a weakness of hers. He’s wearing a flannel shirt opened over a white T-shirt, worn jeans, and his white sneakers. She wants to cuddle him, lay her cheek on his soft shirt, and breathe him in.

Then, Clarke eventually notices who he’s holding hands with. Echo.

Her face is shielded by large designer sunglasses, but her scowl is visible. 

Clarke feels a hot surge of annoyance. Of course, she’s here. Echo never lets Bellamy go anywhere without her these days.

Clarke doesn’t know if they see her. Wells throws his arm around her, tugging her into his side, and steers them quickly out of the lobby, out into the San Diego sunshine.

She sighs. “I am _so_ glad you’re here.”

Wells chuckles. “C’mon. Let’s stuff our faces with donuts.”

Clarke gets swept in the chaos of Comic-Con when they arrive. These cons are so hectic, there’s hardly room on the schedule to catch a breath.

Her troubles are forgotten, at least briefly, as the cast meets up to check in and go over their schedules for the first day.

Then there’s off, headed to their first interview as a group. Clarke laughs with her castmates as they walk the vibrant, frenzied floorspace, led by their security team. They spot the occasional costume for one of the _Skaikru_ characters and fangirl over other celebrities they see.

Their showrunner, David, herds their group into the interview room, not unlike herding unruly cats. Clarke is guided to her assigned seat, only to balk when she realizes she’s seated next to Bellamy.

Yeah, no. That’s not happening.

Clarke bribes Murphy into switching spots with her. David won’t approve, but she frankly doesn’t give a fuck.

She can’t face Bellamy right now, with her painful, unrequited feelings stamped like lyrics all over her. Lyrics Bellamy has already heard and doesn’t want to look at or acknowledge.

Bellamy finds his seat and stops, his brows pinching across his forehead. He glances up, his eyes scanning over the chairs until he finds her at the end of the row. Their gazes meet.

Bellamy gives her a confused, hurt look.

It fills her with guilt. They always sit together during interviews, getting in trouble for giggling over inside jokes instead of answering questions. She can’t do that now.

Clarke drops her stare to her lap. She ignores Bellamy staring at the side of her face.

“Bellamy,” David says gruffly. “Take your seat.”

The interview is going well, if standard and scripted. They’re not allowed to say much about the upcoming season. David is almost militant about guarding potential spoilers. Their arrogant showrunner takes over most of the questions anyway, liking the sound of his own voice.

Murphy toes the line of spoiling his character’s arc this season and Clarke has to refrain from looking at Bellamy. It’s second-nature at this point. They used to share amused glances whenever Murphy would get close to spilling the whole season.

Clarke’s mind wanders towards the end of the interview, thinking about craft services. She hopes to grab a snack after this. Her attention is snagged when the interviewer says her name.

“I’m sorry.” Clarke flashes an apologetic smile. “What was your question?”

Someone snickers in the row behind her. Clarke is expecting a question about her character, Lyza. Not what comes out of the interviewer’s mouth.

“How did it feel to have a song debuting as #1 on the Billboard Top 100?”

_Not this. Not in front of him!_

Clarke’s stomach plummets. It is years of media training that keeps her polite smile in place.

“Oh, it’s amazing! A dream come true, honestly.”

She prays for that to be it. But of course it’s not.

The interviewer’s blue eyes are bright with eagerness. The blonde woman is clearly thrilled about getting this exclusive. Clarke hasn’t done an interview about the song _for a reason_.

“What was the inspiration behind _Driver’s License?_ ” she asks. “It sounds like a personal song.”

Clarke freezes for a moment, internally panicking. Why isn’t David saying anything? This is an interview for the show—not her!

But no, David isn’t going to jump in. He’s happy with whatever publicity can be brought to his creation, even at her expense.

Quickly, Clarke recovers and aims for humor. “Well, I got my driver’s license earlier this year.”

Thankfully, the interviewer lets out a bright, slightly forced laugh. Clarke wonders if she can sense the tension that has thickened the air in the room.

It’s mortifying. Almost everyone, if not the whole cast, must know by now that she wrote the song about Bellamy. About Echo’s post too.

Her friends have been too nice to say it to her face. But Clarke can feel it now, the knowledge rippling in tense currents between all of them.

“I was proud about that,” Clarke continues. “So, yes, it was personal in a way.”

The interviewer parts her painted lips. “What can you say about the rum—”

Wells, bless his heart, cuts her off and comes to Clarke’s rescue. “I am _really_ excited to talk about the big war this season. It’s going to be epic!”

Monty jumps in to tease about the new enemy they’re facing this season and thankfully, the conversation moves off of her love life.

Her pulse doesn’t slow down for the rest of the interview. Clarke feels flushed and jittery like she’s had too much caffeine, unable to settle down. Stupid of her. She didn’t think they would ask about the song.

They are scheduled for a round of individual interviews, doing the press lineup. Clarke handles those with comfortable ease, falling into the rhythm of similar questions they get asked before every season. No one mentions the song.

She manages to grab an apple from craft services, snacking quickly before they're supposed to do meet-and-greets and autographs with fans. 

That's when Bellamy sneaks up on her, while Clarke oh-so-attractively has juice dripping down her chin. 

"Hey," he greets. "Can we talk?" 

Her first thought is unkind. She was at his house two weeks ago. They could have talked then. Or he could have picked up the phone and called her if he had something to say.

Bellamy looks at her, his bangs falling into his dark, pleading eyes. She is weak. She can’t stay mad at him for longer than thirty seconds.

Clarke grabs a napkin to clean her chin. She has no excuse, no escape route. No choice but to swallow a bite of apple and nod. 

She goes for a casual tone as if everything is normal. “What’s up?”

Bellamy frowns, not joining her charade. “You didn’t tell me when you checked in.”

That is _not_ what she’s expected him to say. “Um. Sorry, we must have missed each other. Wells and I left to grab breakfast.”

And there was no way in hell she was going to meet up with him and Echo. Clarke plans to avoid the woman for the whole con if she can help it.

Bellamy nods. “Right.” He fiddles with the strap of his backpack. “I feel like we haven’t talked in a while.”

Clarke’s brows pinch together. He sounds almost accusatory. Like the radio silence between them is _her_ fault. She doesn’t know what to do with that, more confused by the hurt in his voice than angry.

“It’s been busy. You know?”

God, this is painful. She and Bellamy have never been awkward around each other, not even when they met on the set of _Skaikru_ two years ago.

They had clicked then. Skipped right past the uncomfortable stage of being strangers. She was fifteen, suddenly a lead on a network show, and totally out of depth. Bellamy looked out for her from day one.

He was always there, with advice if she needed it or to cheer her up when she was feeling homesick. Bellamy had been around long enough. He was only eighteen then, but he lived in L.A. for a couple of years and knew people in the business. He warned Clarke off the wrong guys but was never jealous or possessive—like she secretly wished he’d be.

It was platonic on his end. On hers, not so much. Clarke crushed on him since they started filming season one. Years later, those feelings had only grown stronger, deeper, laying roots in her heart.

Bellamy peers at her from under his fringe. His eyes flood with too many emotions to name. Frustration seems to win out, tautening the sharp line of his jaw. He steps closer, looking at her intently. Her pulse stutters.

“Clarke, you know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

Her mouth drops open, words failing to find their way out. “Bellamy…”

His intense stare holds on hers. “I mean it. I’m still here for you, okay? If something is going on with you, I want to know.”

Clarke tries to swallow, her throat bone-dry. She suspects he’s trying to let her down gently. Let her bring up her pathetic, unrequited feelings so they can have a _talk_ about it.

Ugh. Clarke doesn’t need to hear him say she’s like a little sister to him. She’d rather die, thanks.

Echo appears out of nowhere, latching on Bellamy’s elbow. She ignores Clarke completely. “You won’t guess what just happened.”

Bellamy turns to her, his brows raising. A soft smile curves his mouth. “Probably won’t. But I bet you’re gonna tell me.”

That smile digs under her ribs. It kills her, the way Bellamy focuses on her, all attentive boyfriend and teasing tone.

Echo starts to talk about the beauty guru she ran into in the ladies’ room and something about following her on Instagram.

Clarke slips away, forgotten.

 _I’m still here for you._ A nice sentiment, but not the truth.

He’s only here for her until his girlfriend comes along and eclipses Clarke’s existence in his life.

Echo showed Clarke her place and she almost forgot for a minute there. She’s second best.

* * *

The end of Day 1 of Comic-Con is a lot like the end of a concert. The adrenaline is still pumping through your blood and you’re ready to keep the party going. The crash won’t come till later.

Clarke is feeling the same high as her castmates. After having dinner, she goes back to the hotel with Raven and Harper. The plan is to shower and get dressed up for the after-party in Jasper and Monty’s hotel room.

It’s the same every year. The first night’s party belongs to Jasper and Monty, who come prepared with booze in a separate suitcase and games for entertainment.

Clarke came prepared. In her room, she showers and changes into her little black dress and ankle boots. She teases her hair into flirty waves and applies fresh make-up.

Her phone is buzzing with texts when she’s done getting ready. Clarke glances at her phone screen.

 **Wells:** _where are u??_

 **Harper:** _girl. I think that guy you think is hot from riverdale is here. wtf._

 **Octavia:** _saw on twitter that economy is at cc. WTF._

 **Octavia:** _is she surgically attached to my brother’s ass?_

Clarke snorts reading Octavia’s messages. She is the president of the Echo Hate Club, unfortunately for Bellamy. Octavia also refuses to call Echo by her name, coming up with ridiculous codenames for her instead.

Clarke lets Wells knows she’s on her way. Then she exits the hotel room, tucking her phone into her bra.

Down the hallway, there’s a crowd waiting for the elevator, so she decides to take the stairs. Clarke starts taking the two flights to the sixth floor.

She wonders if Charles Melton is actually there. Jasper and Monty’s party seems to grow with each passing year. It will probably be packed.

A sharp voice resonates in the stairwell, halting Clarke’s climb.

“—tell me what it says!”

“I’m not having this conversation again,” Bellamy growls.

Clarke goes still at the sound of his voice. She realizes Bellamy and Echo are in the middle of a heated argument on the landing above her.

“Yes, we are,” Echo hisses. “Just tell me what it says! If it’s not a big deal, then you should be able to tell me.”

Curiously gets the better of Clarke. _What_ it _says? What the fuck is she talking about?_

“You sound ridiculous, you realize that, right?” Bellamy snaps. “Let me know when you’re ready to get off fucking Twitter and join me in the real world.”

Echo’s voice lashes out like a whip, claiming the last word. “Let me know when you’re done entertaining little girls, Bellamy.”

The sound of the stairwell door slamming makes Clarke jump.

She waits, for as long as it seems appropriate not to interrupt if Bellamy is still there. She didn’t hear him leave.

Sure enough, when Clarke resumes her climb to the sixth floor, Bellamy is standing on the landing and rubbing his hand across his face.

He looks good. Upset, but good. Bellamy changed out of his casual con outfit too. He’s in black pants and a navy button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up and letting the world appreciate his sexy forearms.

His glasses have been switched out for contacts and his rich cologne saturates the stairwell. Greedily, Clarke inhales him.

Bellamy’s arm drops, his shoulders stiffening when he notices her there. “Clarke.”

It might be her imagination. But Clarke thinks his eyes drop to the open V of her dress where her cleavage is on display. His gaze lingers there for at least three seconds.

Three seconds in which Clarke doesn’t breathe and feels his maybe-stare like a sensual caress, tightening her nipples into taut peaks.

His gaze returns to her face so quickly, Clarke is sure she just imagined the look, despite the shivers sweeping down her spine.

“Hey.” She waves awkwardly. “Are you okay?”

Bellamy sighs, releasing some of the tension in his muscles. His lips quirk ruefully. “No. I’m really not.”

Clarke frowns, stepping closer to him. Seeing him upset spurs her into action, overcome by the need to comfort him or make it better somehow.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. A sweet, hopeful smile turns his lips up as he looks at her. “I think I could use one of your hugs right now.”

Clarke hesitates. Can they still do that? Is he not uncomfortable by her not-platonic feelings for him?

She leans in cautiously to slip her arms around him. Bellamy doesn’t hesitate at all. He pulls her in tight, wrapping her in his warm embrace.

One large hand splays over her bare back and Clarke tries not to melt at the feel of his rough palm on her skin.

Her eyes slip closed. They fit together so perfectly. She feels Bellamy’s chest expand with a deep sigh, like he is at peace holding her too.

“I missed you,” he says into her ear.

A shudder passes through her at the brush of his lips. She is dying slowly. Death by longing.

“Me too.”

After a minute, they break apart. Clarke looks up at him. “Bellamy, are we…good?”

“’Course we are.” He squeezes her arm. “We’re always good, Princess.”

Clarke smiles to herself, following Bellamy out of the stairwell into the hallway. That’s all she needs to hear.

They join the party happening in the crowded hotel suite. Dance music is thumping in time with the colorful strobe lights someone has set up.

Their castmates are gathered in clusters, mingling and sipping from plastic cups. It feels like the college parties Clarke has missed out on.

Bellamy collects drinks from a cooler, handing Clarke a cold can of beer. She accepts the can with a surprised smile and he winks at her. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

She’s seventeen, only a year older than Octavia. Though Clarke would bet Bellamy wouldn’t let his baby sister have a beer or be at this party. That’s the difference, the bit that gives Clarke hope.

Bellamy doesn’t treat her like a child. He’s protective and caring by nature. But he’s always treated Clarke like an equal. Like she’s smart and capable of her own choices.

Maybe it won’t happen now when she’s still a teenager and he has a girlfriend. But maybe one day, down the line, he can look at her and see someone he could love.

After a few sips of beer—and most likely, that hug in the stairwell—the tension between them breaks apart. Bellamy leans a shoulder against the wall, gifting Clarke with his full attention.

“So,” he starts, his brown eyes bright with mirth, “fifty bucks Murphy spoils his arc at tomorrow’s panel.”

Clarke grins. “Did you see David’s _face_ during the interview today? I’m shocked David didn’t put a muzzle on him!”

“He probably tried,” Bellamy jokes.

She bursts into laughter, more giddy that they’re talking again than amused.

Bellamy smiles widely, watching her laugh like it’s a bigger accomplishment than the time he won the Teen Choice Award as male lead on _Skaikru_.

They get to talking about the con, what they’re looking forward to, and what questions they think the fans will ask. The conversation moves onto them catching up on the past month, the audition Bellamy went on for an upcoming indie movie and Clarke’s latest paintings.

Once they get going, it’s like nothing can stop them. Clarke doesn’t talk this much to anyone else. With Bellamy, it’s easy. It has been practically since the day they met. Definitely since their first night shoot when they stayed up until sunrise having a deep conversation about growing up in broken families.

Bellamy doesn’t leave her side that night. Others come up to him to say hi. Her best friend is the social one out of the two of them. He knows everyone on their crew by name and several actors from other shows, which greet him familiarly at cons.

“Blake! Griffin!”

Raven’s loud voice cuts into their conversation. She’s waving them over from behind the makeshift beer pong table. Emori stands beside her, tossing a plastic ball in the air.

Bellamy glances at her, already smirking. “What do you say, Princess? Up for kicking their ass at beer pong?”

“Hell yeah,” Clarke answers.

* * *

She’s awake before her alarm blares the next morning. Despite getting about three hours of sleep, Clarke is still wide-eyed and energetic as she gets ready for the day. Last night’s party—okay, mostly _Bellamy_ —leaves a euphoric high running in her veins.

On her phone there’s a text waiting from Bellamy, letting her know he’s downstairs at breakfast. Clarke rushes to grab her things and leave the hotel room.

She finds about half of their group downstairs. Jasper and Raven are nowhere to be seen. Nursing hangovers, if she had to guess. Emori is wearing sunglasses at her table while Murphy looks half-dead as he drinks his coffee, glaring at the world.

“Ah, there’s your better half,” Monty teases Bellamy.

Bellamy is at his own table by the window. He has two steaming cups of coffee in front of them, a plate of bacon and eggs, and a blueberry muffin. His own plate is half-empty.

He smiles upon seeing her, his face warm and soft. “Morning, Princess. Got you the last muffin.”

“You better enjoy it,” Murphy bitches from his table before Clarke can sit down. “Asshole almost took my arm off for it!”

Bellamy looks sheepish and Clarke’s great morning just got even better. He rubs the back of his neck and mumbles, “I know they’re your favorite.”

“They are,” Clarke agrees. Her cheeks ache from her grin. “Thanks, Bell.”

Emori coughs what suspiciously sounds like “get a room”.

Clarke’s face prickles with warmth. She stuffs a bite of muffin into her mouth to distract from her blush. Practically everyone on their cast knows about her big, pathetic crush. They don’t need to bring it up _in front of_ Bellamy though.

They have a nice, if brief breakfast while their other castmates drag themselves from their rooms. Raven is definitely hungover—and still bitter from losing beer pong. She steals Clarke’s bacon in retribution and Bellamy teases her for being a sore loser.

Echo doesn’t come down. Clarke doesn’t ask where she is and Bellamy doesn’t mention her. Selfishly, Clarke hopes she left.

The day is already shaping up to be better than yesterday. Clarke heads to the convention center with her cast, sandwiched in between Bellamy and Wells. Her mood is like the sunny day outside—golden, joyful, untouched by a single dark cloud.

The best part is that she and Bellamy are back on their usual rhythm, the way they were at past cons. The way it’s _supposed_ to be.

She and Bellamy side-by-side, the co-leads. Finishing each other’s sentences as they talk about their characters’ dynamic this season. Laughing as the other tries to navigate the minefield of potential spoilers and then jumping in to help.

When it’s time for them to take the stage for Skaikru’s panel, Clarke almost trips going to her chair.

It’s Bellamy’s fault. He’s cracking a joke in her ear and she isn’t looking where she’s going. Her foot hooks on the leg of the chair. Bellamy manages to catch her around the waist in time, smoothly lowering her into her seat.

Unfortunately, their audience catches the whole thing. There are a few laughs. Most of them are _oohing_ and swooning over Bellamy’s save.

Then Murphy leans into the microphone and makes a joke about their heroic male lead. The crowd roars.

Clarke’s ears are burning. A gif of her tripping is going to be viral on Twitter before the panel is over. How she ended up as a celebrity is a fluke. She is still _Clarke_ , a total dork.

The panel is a blast. Even having their dick showrunner there doesn’t kill the vibe. Clarke laughs so hard her stomach aches. She loves her cast, loves their fans, loves her job.

They have photo-ops with fans, then another round of meet-and-greets. By the time day two is winding down, Clarke’s exhaustion catches up with her. They’re released from their duties and Clarke slips back to the hotel for a nap.

She misses dinner with her castmates. Clarke orders something to eat from room service. While eating, she goes through her phone, answering the messages and work emails she’s neglected during the day, including a couple from her mom.

Wells texts her later about a movie night happening in his hotel room. Clarke doesn’t think twice about agreeing, just changes into her pajamas and goes down the hall.

Jasper swings the door open when she knocks. His long, slender arm blocks the doorway. “Inner circle only. What’s the passphrase?”

Clarke smirks. “David sucks.”

Jasper grins and lets her through. Wells’ room smells like buttery popcorn and familiar, overlapping voices bounce off the walls.

She finds Monty, Raven, Harper, Murphy and Emori gathered in the suite’s living area. Wells is fiddling with the room’s TV system.

Snacks and candy clutter the glass coffee table, along with liters of soda and a six-pack of hard lemonade.

“Cute jammies,” Murphy greets her with a mocking smirk, as Raven is barking instructions at Wells about the DVD set-up.

Clarke ignores his sarcasm and swoops down to steal his drink. He’s mixed Coke and vodka. She helps herself to a few sips.

Drinking keeps her from blurting the question that tingles on her tongue. _Where’s Bellamy_? His absence is obvious to her, the missing piece to their group, but no one offers an explanation.

Clarke makes a bowl of popcorn and candy, taking a seat on the carpeted floor next to Harper. At last, Raven helps Wells get the movie playing on the flat screen. A few of them cheer while Jasper lets out a piercing whistle.

She texts Bellamy: _movie night @ wells. you coming?_

They’re watching _Bird Box_. Emori and Murphy haven’t seen it. Clarke has, but it’s worth watching again. Her friends’ commentary add a new, colorful experience.

Her text to Bellamy goes unanswered. Clarke tries not to think about who he’s with tonight. Inevitably, she can think of nothing else.

She messages him again when the movie is almost over. They haven’t talked since leaving the convention center that afternoon. Bellamy said they’d hang out later. Unless something better came along.

 **Clarke:** _everything ok?_

That goes unanswered too.

She falls asleep in a jumble on the floor, half leaning on Harper, her legs in Wells’ lap.

The next morning, Clarke helps Wells clean up their mess in his room and rushes back to hers to pack. They all slept in, saved for Murphy and Emori who snuck back to their room at some point during the night.

Clarke throws her things together, takes a quick shower, and runs out of time to look better than she does—after having slept on a hotel room floor, her hair drying in a wet bun. She finishes with ten minutes to spare before check-out time.

Breakfast is almost cleared out when Clarkes makes it downstairs. She grabs coffee in a to-go cup and a plain yogurt.

Her castmates trudge to the lobby with their bags. Most of them are cutting it close, like her, scrambling to check out and get their luggage loaded up before the cars leave. Thankfully, they’re all preoccupied and she isn’t forced to talk, not feeling sociable that morning.

Clarke blames her poor mood on tiredness, not on feeling ignored by Bellamy yet again. That excuse holds up right until she steps outside of the hotel and sees them.

Bellamy and Echo, wrapped around each other. They’re kissing deeply, oblivious to the world. Echo has him pressed against the Escalade’s door, standing in between his legs, Bellamy’s large hands resting on her waist.

Clarke can only take catching a glimpse, but she sees more than enough.

The pain is immediate and sharp, bringing tears to her eyes. She snaps her sunglasses down to hide them, from familiar faces and strangers alike in front of the hotel. 

_Stupid,_ she chides herself.

What, did she think playing beer pong and sharing a few jokes meant something? She’s just a stupid kid. Bellamy has Echo.

He doesn’t want her. Never has, never will.

* * *

It gets worse.

The Instagram post, the Twitter trends, the painful interview questions—all just a warm-up to the finale.

A day after Comic-Con, the online gossip sites are buzzing. Twitter, Hollywood Life, and fucking TMZ are discussing the “love triangle” between her, Bellamy, and Echo like they’re on a CW show and this isn’t her _life_.

Buzzfeed has an article dedicated to why Driver’s License is _totally_ about Bellamy Blake.

There are leaked photos, taken by fans: her and Bellamy smiling at each other, her and Bellamy at the panel with his arm around her, and Bellamy and Echo kissing outside.

Sources claim that Clarke and Bellamy were “flirting” all con. An insider _swears_ that Echo and Clarke publicly fought over Bellamy.

Clarke stares in silent horror at her laptop screen. This can’t be happening.

Her phone rings on her desk. Clarke checks, sees Octavia’s name, and swipes to answer. “Did you see—?”

“Dude.” Octavia says emphatically. Then again, sharper. “ _Dude_.”

“It’s that bad, right? I’m not overacting. This is a fucking nightmare.”

“It’s that bad,” Octavia confirms. “ _Don’t_ go on Twitter. Trust me.”

Too late. Clarke has seen everything. The photos, the gifs, the long threads of her puppy heart eyes towards Bellamy. Their show’s fans that “ship” them are losing their minds and arguing with each other about “Becho” vs. “Blarke”.

She’s hyperventilating. Her heart is racing out of control, too hard, too fast. There isn’t enough air in the room to breathe. Or maybe in her lungs, which feel shrunken, useless. She gasps for breath.

“Fuck,” Clarke swears. “I never should have released the song! What didn’t you all stop me?”

“Because it’s a fucking banger,” Octavia replies. “Don’t blame the song, Clarke. The song is awesome.”

“Do you think Bellamy has seen all of this?”

“Doubt it,” Octavia says, chewing on something crunchy. “My brother thinks tabloids are a ‘plague upon society’.”

They both snort. A brief moment of levity that ends too soon.

“Yeah. He’s not going to pay attention to what TMZ is saying about him.”

Her only hope is that Octavia is right. Even then, social media is making it _impossible_ to avoid. A simple Google search for her or Bellamy’s name and it brings up the supposed “love triangle” drama and articles about her song being about him.

Maybe Bellamy has heard the rumors. Maybe he believes them, knows how Clarke feels. He told her they were good. This doesn’t have to ruin their friendship or their work relationship if she doesn’t let it.

Clarke tries to free herself from panic, its vice-like tendrils squeezing her lungs. Negative thoughts swat away any emerging optimism.

She hasn’t heard from Bellamy. He left the con with Echo, didn’t say goodbye.

Either he’s so caught up in his girlfriend he’s forgotten her existence again or he’s avoiding her. Both options suck.

“O,” Clarke says in a small voice. “We start filming in two weeks. I can’t—how am I supposed to see him every day? And there’s a rumor that our characters might hook up this season.”

They get asked about their characters’ dynamic at every interview. Everyone raves about their chemistry. A lot of their audience expects it to go in that direction.

Usually, Bellamy and Clarke have been instructed to give vague, no promises answers. David is the one that hints at more during panels, baiting to keep their fans on a hook.

This year, though, Clarke’s ears heard a rumor that the writers’ room is plotting a steamy kiss.

It could be just a rumor. Still, the possibility fills Clarke head-to-toe with frenzied butterflies.

On one hand, she doesn’t want a forced, scripted kiss from Bellamy. On the other hand, hell, she’ll take what she can get.

But the timing this season couldn’t be worse. Any more awkwardness and tension and their friendship won’t recover.

“Holy shit. Finally!” Octavia bursts. “We’ve all been waiting for that ship to sail.”

“O!”

“Hold on. Let me think.” Crunching noises fill the line as Octavia munches on what might be granola. “Okay, I got it. Damage control.”

Clarke rubs at her temples where a headache is brewing. This is too much. She can’t think straight. “Huh?”

“You need to do damage control. Everyone thinks you’re pining over Bellamy,” Octavia says, blunt as ever. “So, show them you’re over it. Go on a date. Look happy.”

The idea sinks in slowly. A fake date. It might work. At the least, it will throw the media wolves off her scent, give them something else to talk about.

Clarke is willing to try just about anything for this damn nightmare to end. She is sick of her private, painful feelings being splashed about and discussed by strangers on the Internet. How Taylor Swift handles this scrutiny is beyond her.

“Yeah, okay.” Clarke blows out a breath. “That could work.”

There are plenty of downsides to being an actress that has “made it”, other than having your privacy invaded. Clarke has little free-time to do as she pleases, especially with Abby Griffin as her mom/agent.

When she’s not filming or doing press or attending cons, there are manuscripts to review and auditions to go on, if she wants her career to flourish instead of stall. Then, there are the events, the award shows and Hollywood parties, which can be glamorous yet time-consuming.

The _plus_ side to being an actress on a semi-popular network show, is that you meet a lot of people. Many of which are hot people also in the industry and are not opposed to publicity stunts.

Clarke quickly figures out there are perks to having her name trending on Twitter, too. Other aspiring artists trying to reach stardom are willing to hitch their wagons onto hers, so to speak.

The tricky part is that Clarke has to screen the candidates. She needs to find someone that she can tolerate going on a date or two with, not too shallow or self-absorbed. Also, someone that isn’t going to blab to the press about their PR stunt and made this shit situation even worse.

In the end, she decides on a model she met while doing a photoshoot for a perfume act a few months ago. Cillian Knight.

He was easy to talk to, made her feel comfortable during the shoot. Didn’t make sleazy comments about her being not-yet eighteen, which she _has_ heard before. Not bad to look at either.

She messages Cillian through Instagram. They follow each other, so that makes this stunt seem plausible.

Cillian answers her within a half-hour: _hey, Clarke. so good to hear from you. i’m free this friday. we can grab dinner?_

Clarke lets out a huge breath. She’s been drowning for weeks. Finally, she’s been thrown a lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ❤️ Love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Part II to follow soon.


	2. the other half of my broken heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy. This fic was supposed to be a oneshot and it has somehow morphed into 3 parts. I'm having a blast writing it, so I guess that's what counts haha. 
> 
> You guys, thanks so much for the kudos/comments! I'm happy you all are enjoying this drama-filled AU too. 
> 
> Here's part II:

* * *

Clarke has a great time on her date with Cillian.

She’s never been on a proper date before. With Finn, her first—and only—boyfriend, the only place they went “out” was to Chipotle. With Niylah, they were friends-with-benefits and that included staying in, usually at her place. 

But Cillian takes her to a restaurant in L.A., holds the door open for her, and listens to her talk about art without trying to stick his tongue down her throat.

Not a high standard, but she only has Finn to compare him to.

Cillian treats her right. He takes their night together seriously, despite knowing it’s for show. He orders them a bottle of vintage wine and splits it with Clarke, not caring that she’s underage. Then he graciously picks up the bill.

When their leave the restaurant, they’re blinded by flashing paparazzi lights. Cillian shields her from the onslaught, his arm curled around her protectively. No one would guess _he_ was responsible for calling the paps.

It was part of the agreement they struck. Clarke was upfront with Cillian, not wanting there to be any hurt feelings or misunderstandings about what this is.

 _A showmance,_ he called it. Cillian said he knew the score. He agreed to help her out, without probing for details about why she was asking. This was how things were done in Hollywood and her name had Twitter trends attached to it recently.

“Just don’t fall in love with me,” he had joked with a wink.

 _No problem,_ she thought. Her heart belongs to Bellamy Blake. Even if he doesn’t want it.

Now Clarke laughs as she falls into the back of the cab. Cillian pulls the door shut, sheltering them from the bright camera flashes. 

“My hero,” she teases. Her face is flushed from the wine and excitement of their escape.

Cillian grins at her, his dark eyes slightly glassy. “Where to now, Hollywood?”

“Ooh, dessert!” Clarke exclaims. Her attention flits to the cab driver impatiently waiting on their instruction. She gives him the address of the amazing ice cream shop on Beverly Boulevard.

Clarke rolls down the window during the drive, enjoying the cool wind on her cheeks. She glances at Cillian. “Can you do your thing?”

He dips his chin. “More paparazzi coming right up.”

She laughs again. Cillian has such a good sense of humor about this. It has made the showmance easy. And after the past month, she could use easy.

They’re dropped off on the street in front of the ice cream shop. Clarke’s mouth is already salivating thinking about the big banana split she’s going to get. She covers the cab’s fare, since Cillian took care of their expensive dinner.

“What’s good here?” Cillian asks while they’re waiting in line to enter.

His arm slides around her waist. Clarke tries not to jump at the unexpected touch. After a moment it no longer feels odd. Then Cillian discretely nods at the pair of teenage girls that are eyeing them and whispering.

She makes the effort to lean into Cillian’s side. Not a chore. He smells nice. Doesn’t make her head spin or her heart feel like it’s going to burst. It just…is.

Clarke’s mouth twitches with a smile. “Bellamy loves the brookies. They’re half-brownie, half cookie.” She starts to laugh. “One time, he accidentally called them boogies while we—”

Clarke stops. She’s halted by the knowing look on Cillian’s face.

“What?” she demands.

Her date shrugs, smirking. “Oh, nothing. Just feel like I know the guy. You’ve mentioned him about a dozen times tonight.”

Normally, Clarke would change the subject or at least blush. She’s tipsy on wine, though, and her inhibitions are lowered. So, she just elbows Cillian hard in the gut.

“Shut up,” she says as he wheezes.

Cillian recovers after a moment, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “So, that’s why we’re doing this.”

Clarke says nothing. She deliberately ignores him, swiping through Instagram on her phone. Clarke is aware of how childish this is, but she doesn’t care.

“I don’t live under a rock, you know,” he mutters pointedly. He adds, “I like the song.”

Clarke lets out a long, pitiful groan. She glances up from her phone, pouting. “Is it _that_ obvious?”

“No,” Cillian says, and he sounds genuine. “Not to the gossip sites you’re trying to fool. The photos will sell, Clarke. They’ll tell the story. The guy you’re trying to make jealous though…”

She shakes her head, adamant. “That’s—that’s not what this is. Not at all.”

They move up in the line before she can say anything else. Just as well. It isn’t Cillian’s business and Clarke doesn’t have to explain herself to him. They have an agreement.

Clarke orders her banana split ice cream sundae in a big, delicious bowl. Cillian gets several snickerdoodle cookies. At his suggestion, they eat at a table outside, in full view of the street.

Those teenage girls definitely spotted them. She has hopes there will leaked photos online tomorrow.

Clarke won’t have to lie, won’t have to say a single word. Her heart can stay private. The photos can do all the talking and say everything that she can’t.

Cillian tells her about his modeling work while they have their dessert. He’s done shoots with some big-name photographers and she is impressed. Clarke prefers painting to photography, but she has respect for all forms of art.

Her phone buzzes on the café table. Bellamy’s name lights up the screen. Her pulse jumps.

Cillian guesses by the look on her face. “It’s him? Answer it.”

Her date has a sly gleam in his eye that she doesn’t know what to make of. But Clarke is following his lead here. Cillian gives her an encouraging nod at the third ring and she swipes to answer the call.

“Hello?” Clarke giggles.

Her veins buzz with nerves, wine tipsiness, and a sugar rush. A deadly combination. She shouldn’t be unsupervised right now. And her fake-date does _not_ count as responsible supervision.

“Clarke, hey,” Bellamy’s voice comes through, warm and rough. She aches to wrap herself in it. “What’s up?”

Cillian says something before she can respond. Clarke suspects it might be gibberish. But it does the trick—his voice reaches the other line, clearly male.

“Oh,” Bellamy says, faltering. “Are you—are you with someone?”

“I’m on a date,” Clarke announces in a sing-song voice.

“A _date_?” Bellamy repeats. “With who?”

She bites her lip on a joyous grin. Bellamy’s voice isn’t warm anymore—it’s heated.

Clarke isn’t foolish enough to believe he’s jealous. Bellamy is just worried about her. But having his attention is better than him ignoring her existence.

The phone is swiped out of her hand. Clarke’s eyes widen as Cillian speaks into the speaker, grinning, “With _me_.”

She hears Bellamy demand, loud and clear, “ _who is this?”_

“This is Cillian, Clarke’s date. I’d appreciate her full attention right now, so she’ll have to call you back. Probably tomorrow. She’ll be _busy_ tonight.”

Clarke’s mouth drops open as Cillian ends the call, setting her phone down. 

“Holy shit,” she blurts. “I—I can’t believe you just said that to him!”

Cillian shrugs, breaking off a piece of his cookie. “He deserves to sweat a little, don’t you think?”

Clarke shakes her head slowly. “I can’t decide if you’re ballsy or stupid.” At his curious look, she elaborates. “Bellamy is overprotective. He’ll kill you for even implying that we’ll…”

“Have sex tonight?” he finishes.

Blood burns in her cheeks. Clarke shushes him, glancing around. There are people walking the streets, but no one seems to be listening in on their conversation.

Cillian smiles softly when she blushes. “Oh, that’s cute. I forget how young you are.”

Clarke scowls. She doesn’t like being treated like a helpless child. She had to grow up fast after her dad died, fending for herself while her mom worked long hours at the hospital. She’s traveled all over the country, out of the country, and lives alone.

Clarke may not be an adult in the eyes of the law, but she’s been grown for a while.

Cillian pauses, studying her with a wrinkled brow. “You’re really not trying to make him jealous?”

She snorts. “That’d be useless. He doesn’t see me that way.”

“Wow. You believe that, huh?”

Clarke glares at him. “It’s the truth.”

“Clarke,” Cillian laughs. She’s missing the joke. “Guys only get ‘overprotective’ about a girl’s sex life for two reasons. One, he’s related to her. Two, he’s wants to _do_ her.”

She almost chokes on a slice of banana. Clarke coughs in between regarding him incredulously. “What about _friendship_? He’s my best friend.”

“I have a close female friend,” he says. “I don’t see her in a romantic way. When she gets laid, I high-five her and make jokes. That’s what you do with _friends_. This guy, Bellamy, cares too much about who you’re seeing to be just a friend.”

“You’re wrong,” she argues, her chin set. “Bellamy is looking out for me. That’s what he does.”

Cillian dips his chin in acquiescence. “Yeah, maybe he is. But you’ll see for yourself it’s more than that, Clarke.” He points a finger at her. “Mention our date. Be suggestive. Notice his reaction and get back to me.”

“Fine.”

Clarke intends to do just that, to prove Cillian wrong. She’s feeling defensive of Bellamy. He has been nothing but a caring friend to her.

Oh, Clarke wishes there _was_ jealousy on his part. But she’s not going to let someone call Bellamy’s character into question. This isn’t just some emotionally constipated dude-bro that thinks with his dick. It’s _Bellamy_.

She gives it a day. Clarke is not opposed to making Bellamy sweat a little, like Cillian said. Let him think she did sleep with Cillian. After all, she had to watch him make out with Echo.

The next night, Clarke texts Bellamy, asking if they can chat over Skype. He agrees. At nine pm, she logs on and her heart is thumping in the back of her throat.

Bellamy’s face fills her laptop screen. He’s gorgeous, as always, with his unruly curls and square-framed glasses. Yet the smile he gives her is closed-lipped, strained.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice emerges high and nervous.

Bellamy nods. He doesn’t talk, his fingers drumming on the desk he’s seated at. A tell-tale sign of his agitation. Though she doesn’t know why he’s upset.

Clarke squints at the screen. “What’s wrong?”

His jaw clenches. “I take it you had a good time with the _model_.”

Scorn drips off the last word. Which is so unfair. His girlfriend is a damn Instagram model. He has no place to judge.

Then, it clicks with Clarke why he’s upset with her. She remembers the abrupt end to their phone conversation the night before.

“Cillian,” she supplies, grimacing apologetically. “Sorry he hung up on you. He uh—”

“Wanted to keep you busy,” Bellamy grits out.

Clarke stares at him. She apologized on her date’s behalf. She’s trying to catch up with him now. What the hell is his problem?

“Why are you being so weird right now?”

He scoffs. “I’m not.”

He is. Bellamy is acting strange and kind of angry with her. She doesn’t understand why.

Then, Cillian’s theory enters her mind. It feels far-fetched, outside the realm of possibility. Clarke is too afraid to hope, but she has to give the theory a shot.

Clarke swallows. She pulls up her tool of acting tricks, forcing her body to relax its tense muscles, and smirks brazenly. Her voice gets higher, channeling the flirty Josephine character she once played.

“We did have fun together,” she murmurs. “Let’s just say it'll be a while before he recovers.”

Clarke has no idea what she’s talking about. She feels ridiculous.

Until Bellamy visibly cringes on her screen. He pulls a face she’s never seen him make before, grimacing. His hand comes up to tug at his earlobe. He won’t look at her.

Clarke can’t believe what she’s seeing. This is not the way Bellamy reacts when Raven mentions her sex life. Or Harper. He hasn’t been this painfully uncomfortable, looking as if he wished she hadn’t said that.

Then, just as swiftly, Bellamy’s demeanor changes. His anger returns in full force, flashing through his dark, wide eyes. “Clarke, what the hell? You _slept_ with him?”

His abrupt change catches her off guard. “I…so what if I did?” she challenges.

Bellamy’s jaw tightens into a rigid line. “You know nothing about this guy! And how old is he? Twenty-one? What you were thinking?”

Clarke’s spine stiffens. She bristles in the face of Bellamy’s cutting judgment. She can’t stand the way he sounds disappointed in her.

“You are such a hypocrite!” she snaps. “You slept with half of the extras on our set when we filmed season 1! Did you know all of them?”

Bellamy’s expression darkens. “That’s different. I was eighteen. An adult. You’re—”

“What?” Clarke demands, her throat aching from her harsh tone. “A kid? Is that what you were going to say?”

She doesn’t let him answer, too agitated to stop. “Well, guess what, Bellamy? I’m _not_. I’m seventeen and I’m allowed to sleep with whoever the hell I want!”

“Clarke—” Bellamy tries to speak.

She slams her laptop shut. That isn’t enough for the frustration roaring in her veins. She grabs a pillow nearby and presses it against her face, releasing a scream.

* * *

They don’t talk for a week. This isn’t how she expected their start of filming together to go. But there it is.

Clarke almost texts him and calls him about fifty times in those days. She and Bellamy don’t fight. The rare times they are angry with each other, it doesn’t last even twenty-four hours. They’re quick to forgive each other, resume their closeness.

Not this time. Bellamy doesn’t try to fix them and Clarke doesn’t either. Every time she reached for the phone, she stopped. Her mind would picture Echo there, soothing his wounds. And those were the optimistic thoughts.

In her darker moments, she imagines Bellamy isn’t upset at all. He’s forgotten about her. Out of sight, out of mind. He’s preoccupied with Echo. He doesn’t care about her hurt, childish feelings.

Once, when Octavia is over to visit her before Clarke leaves for filming, Clarke makes her watch Echo’s story on Instagram. She needs to know.

The story shows some glitzy L.A. restaurant they’re at. The water-front view. Echo’s expensive wine glass. Then Bellamy.

It’s obvious that Echo forced the photo on him. Bellamy doesn’t smile. He stares at the camera, lips in a flat line, irritated. His eyes are what haunt Clarke. They look sad, lost.

Is he missing her? Does he regret the fight like she does? Or does it have nothing to do with her at all?

Clarke arrives in Vancouver for filming. Despite the twisted state her heart has been in for weeks, seeing the familiar, lush green terrain outside her plane window brings Clarke a sense of peace, of homecoming.

She’s going to be surrounded by her family, her castmates, in her element and everything is going to be okay.

The cab she climbs into after leaving the airport takes her through the city streets and drops her off in front of the row of townhouses. During the ride, Clarke has texted Raven that she’s here.

Her castmate is waiting for her outside, wearing a bright grin. “Hey stranger,” Raven greets.

She comes over to help Clarke unload her luggage, her biceps flexing as she lifts the heavy bags effortlessly. Together, they carry her things up the front steps and into the townhouse.

Clarke laughs at the sight of messy chaos she finds their rented home in. “Rav, you’ve only been here an hour!”

Raven flips her hands dismissively, smirking. “You know I prefer the ‘lived in’ look.”

They both laugh at that. Clarke sets her bag down and crosses the room to hug her. Raven seems surprised for a moment. They’re not the touchy-feely type. But she hugs Clarke back tightly.

She needs this. Perhaps Raven can sense that. Clarke feels fragile in a way she isn’t used to.

“It’s good to be here,” Clarke murmurs.

“I’ll bet.”

They break apart. Raven eyes her with concern. “You okay, Griffin?”

Clarke nods, managing a small smile. “Been better. But yeah, I’ll be okay.”

She takes her bags into her room. Raven doesn’t give her the chance to get properly unpacked. Her old friend isn’t the type for emotional conversations, but she tries to cheer Clarke up in her own way.

They mix margaritas in the kitchen, courtesy of the supplies Raven has brought with her. Clarke is laughing by the time they’re seated on the sofa with their drinks and reminiscing over filming memories. Remembering the time a bear wandered onto their set and freaked Murphy out never fails to make her crack up.

An hour in, once they’re both sufficiently tipsy, Raven nudges her leg. “So, I saw the pics. You two looked cozy.”

Clarke’s brow furrows in confusion. She thinks Raven is talking about her and Bellamy at first. Which is bizarre, because Raven _likes_ Echo and wouldn’t comment on her friend’s boyfriend like that.

“You and Cillian,” Raven supplies. “That’s his name right? The underwear model.”

“Oh,” Clarke blurts. Then, her face flushes. “He’s not _just_ an underwear model.”

“No. But that Calvin Klein ad is his best work.” She winks.

Clarke snorts and swats at her arm. She’s seen the ad too. It leaves little to the imagination.

“So, how was the date?” Raven demands, stirring the straw in her glass. “The photos online were PG. Give me the dirty details, Griffin.”

Clarke bites her lip. Heat crawls up her neck. Not because of any dirty details, but out of guilt. No one knows the date was fake. She suspects she’s going to have to keep it that way for this to work and that means lying to her friends.

She and Cillian haven’t seen each other since then, but they’ve talked. They get on surprisingly well. She likes Cillian, in a fun older-brother kind of way. He’s listened to her rant and given her advice.

Cillian suggested that he’ll fly out to visit her in Vancouver during filming. It will sell their whirlwind romance to the media. The photos online have gotten attention just like Clarke hoped. And Cillian seems pleased with the publicity their arrangement has brought him.

Raven grins, misinterpreting the flush on her cheeks. “Wow. It must have been some date.”

She nods. “It really was. We click, you know?”

Thankfully, Clarke doesn’t have to lie more than that. She nudges the conversation onto Raven’s love life and her friend talks about how things are going with her boyfriend, Shaw. Raven lives with him in L.A.

They call it a night around ten, knowing their day will be busy tomorrow. Clarke has a quick shower to rinse the plane ride off of her and crawls into bed.

Before falling asleep, she takes a glance at her phone. A missed call from Mom. A text from Wells asking if she got settled okay. Nothing from Bellamy. Again.

The radio silence kills her. This isn’t them. Bellamy always checks in with her after she flies in for filming. She’ll call him to let him know she’s okay and they end up talking on that first night, losing track of time.

Everything has changed this year. Clarke would give anything to go back.

* * *

Seeing Bellamy on set after not speaking for two weeks is as awkward as she was dreading.

They have a welcome-back breakfast tradition for the cast and crew before they start filming. Catering provides a generous spread of food and drinks. Everyone gathers together, reuniting and catching up.

Clarke gets caught up in a conversation with her favorite make-up artist from the set. She loves most of the people that work on their show and enjoys catching up since they last saw each other. The artist, Lisa, shows Clarke photos of her adorable newborn.

Then Clarke feels that prickle of awareness, raising goosebumps on her skin. A reaction she has no control over. She senses that Bellamy is nearby.

Her eyes lift from Lisa’s phone screen and find him after a moment.

Bellamy is standing by the coffee station, holding a steaming foam cup in his hand. He’s not chatting with anyone, which is unlike him. He stands by himself, his shoulders curled in, lost in thought as he stares into space.

Clarke is about to go to him. She feels an inevitable pull prodding her forward. He’s still her person, no matter what stupid fights they have.

“Clarke!”

It’s David that comes striding toward them. Clarke’s lips purse in displeasure before she smooths out her expression.

David doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He cuts into their conversation and starts giving Lisa the demands he has for her character, Lyza’s, look this season.

Little input is needed from her. She lets Lisa and David talk about her like she isn’t there. Her gaze seeks out Bellamy again.

He’s talking to Miller and Harper now. His expression is animated, putting on a convincing act.

But Clarke has played across from Bellamy for two years. They’ve shared more scenes than anyone. Plus, she _knows_ him. Clarke recognizes when Bellamy is acting. From across the room, she can spot that his expressive eyes don’t match the cheeriness he is portraying.

Clarke doesn’t get the chance to talk to him alone. There are too many people around. They finish breakfast and their cast is swept away for the table-read of season 3’s first episode.

She sits at the round table with her castmates and her attention is often snagged during the read-through by Bellamy’s frequent glances at her.

Reading their first scene together is awkward. Clarke is convinced the whole room can sense the thick tension between them. Their chemistry is off.

David comments on it. Because despite being a damn showrunner, he doesn’t know how to read a room. He at least has the decency to pull the two of them aside during a break.

“Clarke, Bellamy.” David leads them to a corner, his expression clearly displeased. “What is going on here?”

Clarke shifts uncomfortably beside Bellamy. _Oh, where to begin?_

“Sir?” Bellamy asks.

“You’re supposed to be comrades onscreen,” their showrunner berates them. “With an undercurrent of sexual tension. That is _not_ the vibe I’m getting now. You’re giving off uncomfortable one-night-stand that can’t bear to be around each other.”

 _Kill me now,_ Clarke thinks.

She clears her throat and pulls on her professional, big-girl pants. “We’ll take care of it, David. It won’t happen when we film.”

“See that it doesn’t,” David mutters and walks off.

Clarke loses her maturity. She sticks her tongue out at the back of David’s head.

Bellamy snorts from beside her. He’s pressing his lips together when she glances at him. The brief spark of amusement fades from his eyes. His expression pinches.

“Bellamy—” she starts.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “Clarke, I shouldn’t have said anything. You’re right. It isn’t my business.”

His apology loosens the tight knot she’s been carrying in her chest. Clarke reaches out, laying a hand on his arm in comfort. His wide, dark eyes glint with regret.

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I know you were looking out for me.”

Bellamy shakes his head, covering her hand with his. “I trust your judgment. I didn’t mean to make it seem like I don’t.”

“I hated this, not talking to you. It sucked.”

“It did.” He chuckles, though his gaze is still heavy with guilt. “I felt like shit about how I acted. Overreacted, actually.”

Clarke lets a warm, genuine smile free. “You’re forgiven.”

Bellamy smiles too. His eyes soften as he stares down at her.

“Are you lovebirds done?” Murphy shouts, breaking the moment. “I’d like to finish this thing _today_.”

Bellamy squeezes her hand in his before letting go. Clarke follows him to return to her seat at the table, her heart much lighter.

They wrap up the table read in a couple of hours. Clarke grabs food with a few others that the catering team has provided. They’re chatting excitedly about the first episode’s cliffhanger and their predictions for their characters this season.

Bellamy finds her afterward, asking if she’ll take a walk with him. Clarke agrees.

She can’t help the fluttering happening in her stomach. Though Clarke does her best to appear calm and friend-like on the outside, tucking her hands into her hoodie’s pockets. They stroll around the perimeter of the set, breathing in the fresh, woodsy air.

“Let’s try this again,” Bellamy says, flashing a sheepish smile. “So, Cillian. He, uh, treats you well?”

“He does.” That much she can be truthful about.

As strange as it is to talk to him about her love life, Clarke is also glad this ruse has worked. Her best friend doesn’t think she is still pathetically pining for him. They can go back to normal.

“Good. That’s good.” Bellamy pauses, peering at the trees that surround them. “I saw you went to our bakery on Beverly.”

Clarke’s heart stutters. He called it _their_ bakery.

Damn it. He makes it so hard for her to move on when he says things like that.

“I wanted dessert after dinner. That’s my favorite place. Cillian got the snickerdoodle cookies.”

There’s another awkward pause. A muscle ticks in Bellamy’s jaw. He’s trying, which she appreciates, but Clarke can tell he doesn’t want to discuss this. He must not trust Cillian, given their age difference.

Clarke tugs on his sleeve. “Bell, we don’t have to talk about this. How’s Cerberus?”

Bellamy’s face lights up at the mention of his big, German Shepard. “Oh, he’s a little terror,” he laughs.

Despite his namesake and his huge size, Cerberus is actually a sweet dog. He is loyal to Bellamy to a fault.

“What did he do now?”

“He ate Echo’s shoes,” he says, not noticing Clarke’s smile slip off her face. “Tore them to pieces. The two of them fight like—well, like cats and dogs. I keep telling her to stop leaving her stuff around for him to chew on.”

Smugly, Clarke thinks that Cerberus like _her_ better. The dog adores her. Clarke has known him since Bellamy adopted him as a puppy. She and Bellamy used to talk Cerberus on walks together.

“He misses you,” Bellamy says, turning to look at her. “You haven’t been by to see him in a while. Cerberus is gonna think his favorite girl has forgotten about him.”

“I miss him too,” Clarke admits.

Her thoughts are elsewhere, though. She _has_ been by Bellamy’s place. That time weeks ago, when Echo said he didn’t want to see her. And before too, she dropped off a new chew bone toy for Cerberus and left it on Bellamy’s doorstep.

Her mind is turning. “Did you get the toy I left for him?”

Bellamy stares at her blankly. “What toy?”

“A month ago, I dropped off a chew bone for him. You weren’t home. I left in on the doorstep.”

A puzzled wrinkle forms over his brow. “No, I never saw it. That’s odd.”

It isn’t odd. To Clarke, it makes perfect sense. Echo was lying. Bellamy didn’t know she showed up that day. He wasn’t avoiding her.

And she’d bet that Echo is responsible for the missing toy too, which Clarke had signed with a note _Love, Clarke_.

She’s fuming. Echo already _has_ Bellamy in ways she never will. Echo has his heart. How dare she try and come between their friendship—a friendship that existed before Echo even came into the picture.

Well, too bad. She and Bellamy have a close bond that woman can’t break.

That night, Clarke calls Octavia when she gets back to her room. She’s the only person that shares Clarke’s animosity and will be sympathetic.

Clarke tells her the suspicions she has. Octavia laughs on the other line.

“That’s rich!” she cackles. “’Not under my skin’, my ass!”

“I know, right?”

“Did you tell Bellamy?”

“No,” she sighs, flopping back on her bed. “We _just_ got back to a good place. He apologized for being overprotective about Cillian. I don’t need to poke my nose into his relationship now.”

“I’d do it,” Octavia replies. “But he never listens to me about her.”

“Bellamy’s smart. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Spoken like his future wife,” Octavia grumbles. “You always defend him. See, I don’t care who he screws. You’re my sister-in-law, C. One day, Bell is going to wake up and realize that.”

Deep down, Clarke has always believed they’d be good together. But you can’t force love. She respects Bellamy’s choice, even if it’s not her.

* * *

When they’re in the middle of filming, the outside world ceases to exist. The days are long, hard work, sometimes extending into the night too. But Clarke never wants it to end, even on the days she crashes seconds after her head hits the pillow from pure exhaustion.

She’s with her castmates, her second family. They share laughs and inside-jokes between takes, keeping the atmosphere from getting too intense.

During scarce downtime, there fit in move nights, hang-outs, and sneak out once when Raven has a craving for greasy fast food—not something they can get in craft services.

She and Bellamy are inseparable again. Their close friendship gets revived during those filming months. They’re seeing each other every day. Even on days when their shooting schedules don’t align, they seek each other out. Bellamy shows up at her rented townhouse or she finds him at his place.

Clarke forgets about the rest of the world. She is blissfully unaware of what’s happening online.

Ignorance really is bliss, it turns out. Because if she’d been paying attention to Twitter, she would have seen the warning signs instead of being blindsided. 

Clarke strolls onto set that day. She’s not due to film, but sometimes she likes to watch the process, see things from behind-the-scenes. Because she didn’t have an early wake-up call, Clarke is free to grab some muffins from craft and take them to the make-up trailer to share.

Inside the trailer, chattering voices bounce off the walls. Clarke’s mouth quirks hearing Lisa’s distinct laugh. Clarke finds her station, only to halt at the sight of a tall, familiar figure.

Echo is with Lisa, making the other woman laugh. They’re discussing a certain brand of make-up, which Echo was a sponsor of and has opinions on sampling their products.

Her gut curdles. Clarke resists the childish urge to stomp her foot. Why is she _here_?

This is Clarke’s home away from home. Her set. Her people. The place she and Bellamy first bonded. Couldn’t Echo leave this one thing untouched?

A storm churns inside her, a messy bluster of anger and jealousy and despair. Clarke clutches the muffins she’s forgotten in her arms, unable to move from her spot.

It’s Lisa that finally notices her. “Clarke!” She crows in delight. “Good morning, darling.”

Clarke manages a weak nod. “Hi, Lisa. I, uh, brought some muffins.”

Lisa’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s sweet. Maybe I’ll have them later. Echo brought us all donuts are her way in. Isn’t that thoughtful?”

Her teeth cinch as Clarke meets Echo’s stare. The other girl’s expression is stoic, the master of the dead-eyed, bored model look.

“Clarke,” she says flatly. 

Clarke doesn’t want to see her. Her rage returns remembering Echo’s interception. She sets the muffins down and makes a hasty retreat out of the make-up trailer.

Her lunch plans with Bellamy are canceled. Clarke is expecting as much, but it still stings. She’s already losing him again.

He texts her at noon saying Echo is here. She surprised him. Bellamy apologizes for ditching her and she has to say that it’s fine. Of course he has to take his girlfriend to lunch.

Clarke tries to steer clear out of the couple, for the sake of her own sanity. Which seems impossible. Echo is _everywhere_.

She shows up when Clarke is watching a scene Murphy is shooting on green screen, impressing her with his acting skills. Her low voice suddenly enters Clarke’s ears.

Clarke looks behind her and scowls. Echo is on set, arms crossed, while Bellamy is murmuring to her. Giving her an insider tour, apparently.

Murphy comes over to her in between takes, his brows raised. “Is there going to be a catfight?” he asks, sounding hopeful.

“Fuck off,” Clarke growls.

Murphy snickers at her annoyance. “You know, I thought you were a fighter, Griffin.”

She squints at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You just rolled over and _let_ her take your man.”

Murphy saunters off before she can reply. Well, Bellamy isn’t hers. He never has been. So the point is moot.

The day is more laidback than most. They wrap up filming early.

Emori puts together the campfire she’s been talking about for a while. Her place with Murphy has a firepit in the backyard, so a group of them gather on patio chairs.

It’s the perfect chilly night for it. Emori and Murphy are cuddling in their seat. Someone brought out marshmallows and roasting sticks for them to use. From her spot, Clarke stares into the dancing flames and reflects on Murphy’s words from earlier that day.

“Mind if we join you?” Bellamy asks behind them.

“Hey,” Emori greets warmly. “’Course not. Come on, pull up some chairs.” 

Clarke’s hands ball into fists under her blanket. She can’t escape them.

Bellamy and Echo join the circle around the firepit. They pick the two-seater wicker chair, sitting across from Clarke. Bellamy’s eye accidentally catches hers above the crackling firepit and she quickly drops her daze.

Conversation flows around her. Clarke wishes she could join in, go back to being as lively and carefree as she has been. But that’s hopeless after seeing him with her.

“What do you say, Clarke?” Harper asks her suddenly.

Clarke blinks out of her daze. “Huh?”

Harper smiles. “We want you to play us a song. What are you working on now?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen, alarm kicking in her chest. “Uh, a few songs. Nothing’s ready for the studio yet.”

Her hesitance doesn’t stop them. Her castmates pester her about playing something for them. Jasper has been strumming absently at his guitar and he passes the instrument into her arms.

“Ugh, fine,” Clarke groans, just to shut them up. “I’m warning you—it’s not done.”

She starts to strum the melody she’s been working on. The song is a ballad. She has to make it work with the acoustic guitar. Her eyes close, shutting out the fact that they’re watching her. Including Bellamy.

 _“Kiss me now and remind me why I ever wanted to make you mine,”_ she sings. “ _And even though it hurts in this moment_ , _I've always known it. You're the other half of my broken heart …_ ”

Clarke finishes the song to silence, the stillness of the night. Then her friends start clapping and cheering. Jasper lets out a piercing whistle. She laughs at them.

“Wow. What’s that one called?” Harper asks.

“If This is Love,” she says before passing the guitar back to Jasper. One live performance is enough for her.

Jasper tilts his head toward Bellamy. “You’re up next, Blake.”

Bellamy scoffs. “I don’t play guitar.”

A smirk curls Jasper’s lips like he has a juicy secret. “Nah. You’re a bit of a songwriter, though.”

Bellamy stiffens. His head snaps to the side to glare at Jasper, a warning in that look.

“Come on,” Jasper ribs. “Don’t be modest.”

Clarke doesn’t understand the ripple of tension in the air. She thinks Jasper was just making a joke like he does. But Bellamy’s reaction makes no sense. The others seem just as confused.

Except for Echo. Her narrowed eyes are flitting between Jasper and Bellamy suspiciously.

“Awkward,” Harper sings under her breath. “So, who wants to tell ghost stories?”

Later that night, Clarke slips into the house while Jasper in the restroom. She waits for him in the hallway. When Jasper emerges, she steps into his space.

“Jasper, what did you mean about Bellamy being a songwriter?”

The same gleam from before lights up Jasper’s eyes. “Because he is. Our boy, Bellamy, is shy about it. The song he wrote is fucking brilliant.”

Jasper saunters off back to the firepit, leaving Clarke in the aftermath of what he said. He has no idea how he just flipped her world on its head.

Once, many months ago, Octavia mentioned that Bellamy wrote a song about her.

It was while they were hanging out and Octavia had been stealing sips of Jasper’s whiskey. She wasn’t sober. Clarke dismissed it as sisterly teasing, especially when Bellamy just laughed it off.

She can’t believe it’s true.

Clarke doesn’t know what to do, how to _be_ with this knowledge in her head. Bellamy wrote a song. Maybe it’s about her, maybe it isn’t.

The possibility though…the tension it caused between Bellamy and Echo…that’s what changes everything.

* * *

Love makes you act in ways you can’t predict. It robs you of your rational mind sometimes. At least, that’s the excuse Clarke is going with for why she breaks into Bellamy’s townhouse.

 _Breaking and entering_ sounds harsh. She’s not a thief committing a crime. Clarke is a friend that is letting herself into his place with he isn’t home.

She can’t stop thinking about the song he wrote. It’s been haunting her for two days. Two days in which Clarke has been driven up the wall.

Echo is still visiting, glaring coldly at Clarke around set. She’s hogging all of Bellamy’s free time and kissing him in Clarke’s line of sight. No one could blame her for snapping.

So while Bellamy is filming back on set, Clarke sneaks into his place. She uses the spare key he gave her last year to get in. Clarke is going to have a quick look-around, see if she can find the lyrics to this maybe-love song, and put her nagging thoughts to rest.

She pauses after shutting the front door quietly behind her and listens. Clarke thinks Echo is on set watching her boyfriend, but she doesn’t want to take any chances.

The townhouse is silent around her. Clarke continues on. She heads into the bedroom, trying to ignore the fact this is where Echo and Bellamy share a bed while she’s here. Seeing the traces of her around the room make Clarke feel sick.

She pushes through the nausea, searching for Bellamy’s laptop. That’s her best guess as to where he’ll keep hidden lyrics, in some secret document.

His laptop is plugged in, charging on the nightstand. Clarke sits down on the edge of the made bed and opens the laptop. The screen lights up and asks for a password.

Fuck. She didn’t think of that.

Clarke tries his birthday first. That fails. Then she tries Octavia’s, his mom’s, and both of their names. Nope.

Cringing, Clarke forces herself to type Echo’s name. Thank fuck that doesn’t work either.

Last, she tries Cerebus’s name and the year Bellamy got him. _Bingo._

Clarke smiles to herself. She should have known. Cerebus is Bellamy’s baby.

Her smile slips when she catches sight of his desktop background, her mouth taking on an awed shape. It’s them. One of her favorite photos of her and Bellamy and he’s put it as the background for his laptop.

The photo was taken by Wells, she thinks, at a cast party from the first year. She and Bellamy are posing, both wearing sunglasses. Clarke is sticking her tongue out and Bellamy’s head is tipped toward her as he smirks at the camera.

Clarke stares for a minute, almost forgetting her mission. She shakes herself out of it.

Unfortunately, invading her best friend’s privacy was for nothing. She doesn’t find anything in his computer files. He has important documents saved for work, his apartment, and PDF’s of scripts. The occasional electronic book. But no lyrics.

She shuts the laptop and returns it to its place. It’s tempting to comb through his browser history, but Clarke stops herself. She’s violated enough of Bellamy’s privacy.

Clarke sits back, leaden with disappointment. Where else would Bellamy store song lyrics? Maybe he didn’t bring them to Vancouver and they are sitting at his apartment in L.A.

Well, she’ll never get her hands on them then. And considering Bellamy’s caginess at the firepit, he won’t tell her about the song either if Clarke asks.

Clarke is about to stand up and abandon this failed little mission when the bedroom door bursts open. Her heart stops.

Echo comes into the room. She halts at the sight of Clarke sitting frozen on the edge of the bed. Her nostrils flare.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Clarke?”

Oh, shit. This is bad. This is red-alert-shrieking-in-her-ears bad.

Clarke has a moment of internal meltdown. Then she wraps a calm façade around her, despite her pulse sprinting at lightning speed. She stands up from the bed coolly.

“I was waiting to talk to Bellamy,” she lies.

“Alone?” Echo hisses. She’s never seen the other woman this upset, her icy mask cracked open. “On his _bed_? How stupid do you think I am, Clarke?”

Okay. Clarke’s fight-or-flight response is kicking in, letting her know it’s time to get the hell out of here.

“You’re right,” Clarke says, keeping calm as she inches toward the door. “We’re old friends. I didn’t think how inappropriate this—”

Echo’s dark eyes flash. “Bullshit.”

Echo stalks toward her, getting in her face. Clarke tries to step back, but Echo snatches her wrist in a tight grip and holds her there.

“You’re trying to fuck my boyfriend behind my back!”

“What? No—”

Clarke sucks in a breath when Echo’s sharp nails pinch into her skin. The sudden pain shocks her.

“Echo, let go of me,” Clarke demands.

The woman ignores her, careless of Clarke’s attempts to break out of her grasp. Pain licks at Clarke’s wrist where the nails have drawn blood. It’s the hungry, ruthless look in Echo’s eyes that actually scares her though.

“You’re not going to take him away from me,” Echo says through her teeth. “You’re _selfish_ , Clarke. A selfish, naïve little brat—”

“Enough.”

Bellamy’s low, furious voice gets Echo to drop her wrist in shock. She’s still, just as Clarke is, when he walks into the bedroom.

Echo gapes at him, her eyes wide. “Bellamy—”

He ignores her. His focus is on Clarke, stepping between the two of them as if to shield her from Echo. Bellamy’s face is soft, his brow pinched in concern when he gazes down at her.

“You okay?”

Clarke nods, swallowing thickly. Her heart is still racing, but relief courses through her warmly now that he’s here.

“Let me see,” Bellamy murmurs, gently taking her wrist to examine it. His lips thin in anger looking over the red scratches on her skin, welled with drops of blood.

“Come on.”

Bellamy puts his arm around her, his hand pressed to the center of her back as he steers Clarke toward the ensuite bathroom. She lets him, stunned by what’s happened in the last few minutes.

“Bellamy, wait,” Echo says behind them, more urgent.

Bellamy turns in the bathroom’s doorway. His back is to Clarke and she knows she wouldn’t want that expression aimed at her. Bellamy’s anger can slice through you.

“Get out,” he says harshly.

“I…”

“I don’t care where you go. Just don’t be here when I leave this room.”

Bellamy shuts the bathroom door and locks it. He exhales deeply, his jaw taut as he stalks over to the medicine cabinet, muttering to himself about bandages.

Clarke sinks onto the edge of the tub, her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

His head snaps up. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bellamy tells her firmly. “She shouldn’t have put her hands on you.”

Guilt sticks to her throat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been in your room.”

Bellamy comes over to her, dropping the bandages and antibacterial wipes onto the bath mat. He kneels in front of her, taking Clarke’s hands in his. His brown eyes bore into hers, leaving no room for doubt.

“Listen to me, Clarke. This is _my_ home and you are always welcome here. Don’t blame yourself.”

Her heart melts like ice in the sun. This is her Bellamy. The one that has always had her back, protected her, made her feel at home no matter where they were.

Bellamy treats the scratches on her skin with careful, gentle hands. He cleans the blood, applies a thin layer of ointment, and places a bandage over her wrist.

Clarke is so enthralled by watching him, enjoying his touch, that she doesn’t notice the sting anymore.

When he’s done, he stands up to return the supplies to the medicine cabinet. She watches him, her eyes lingering on his broad shoulders, the ripple of muscles in his arm as he reaches for the shelf.

Heat prickles her skin, a guilty flush mixed with attraction. She can’t seem to squash the feelings she has for Bellamy. But the least Clarke can do is not ogle him after getting in between him and Echo.

She feels bad about that. Clarke doesn’t like the older woman. But Bellamy cares for her, maybe loves her. It’s partially her fault that he’s upset with Echo now. This wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been snooping.

Clarke stands up from the tub. “I should go. Thanks for…this.”

Bellamy turns to face her and frowns. “Hold on. Do you mind telling me what happened?” He hastily adds, “I want to hear it from you.”

She crosses her arms, unable to find a good reason to deny him. “Echo found me in your room. She thought I was here to…”

Clarke trails off, not wanting to repeat it.

_“You’re trying to fuck my boyfriend behind my back!”_

Bellamy’s eyes narrow, leaning toward her. “To what?”

A blush burns her face. “To seduce you.”

Clarke almost laughs when his mouth drops open. Bellamy looks as flustered as she feels. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that.

“Oh.”

That’s all he says. Clarke swallows past her embarrassment and continues explaining. “Well, she didn’t believe me when I said I wasn’t here for _that_.” Clarke grimaces. “She hates me.”

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t bother denying it. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize for her.”

“I’m sorry that it happened,” he adds. “Are you okay?”

Clarke gives him a reassuring smile. “You fixed me up. I’m good as new. Anyway, I should go.”

Bellamy frowns at her again like he suspects she’s trying to escape, but he doesn’t argue. He unlocks the bathroom for them to step outside.

She holds her breath crossing the threshold, half-expecting Echo to be standing there seething. But there are no signs of her anywhere.

Bellamy walks to the door where they say goodnight.

Clarke heads down the street to her townhouse with Raven. Her roommate is at dinner with the others. She’s grateful for the solitude, a chance to unleash the chaos roaring inside her head.

In her room, Clarke pulls out the keyboard she brought with her and starts playing, letting the chaos seep out of her with every note and lyric.

It’s not the first song she’s written about Bellamy Blake. She doubts it will be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Clarke plays is If This Is Love by Ruth B. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! The final part is coming soon ❤️


	3. no one compares to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block sucks, fam. I wanted to finish this fic and update my others, but it wasn't happening. Then, finally, a miracle happened yesterday and I was able to write again!
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and loving this little fic. I hope the conclusion has been worth the wait. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Bellamy breaks up with Echo.

Clarke hears the news from Octavia first, who sends her a text early that morning. Her eyes are half-open and bleary, squinting at the screen.

 **Octavia:** _ding dong, the witch is dead._

 **Clarke:** _what? who’s dead???_

 **Octavia:** _the wicked witch!_

 **Octavia:** _bell broke up with her._

 **Octavia:** _*pops champagne gif*_

Clarke stares at her screen. She’s not fully awake. It sinks it slowly. They broke up.

She doesn’t know how to feel about it. Conflicted, that’s how Clarke floats through her day, hearing the gossip from her castmates and some of the crew.

She’s not as shocked as she would have been a week ago. After that ugly scene with Echo, Clarke saw this coming. Bellamy was furious. He didn’t talk to his girlfriend the next day and Echo spent the night at Emori and Murphy’s place—all of which Clarke heard secondhand.

Despite what Bellamy said, Clarke still feels responsible for their fall-out. It’s not like Echo was off-base. Clarke _is_ in love with her boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend now.

In the days that followed her confrontation with Echo, Clarke did her best to steer clear of the aftermath. Which wasn’t easy. The tension between Bellamy and Echo was palpable to everyone around them.

When Bellamy finally stopped giving her the cold shoulder, they had a loud argument on set. Clarke and her castmates heard every word.

So, she’s not surprised to hear that it’s over and that Echo flew back to L.A.

Murphy taunts her about winning the catfight, which Clarke doesn’t find funny at all. Wells nudges her meaningfully towards Bellamy when they’re all together. It’s like they’re expecting her to do something now that Bellamy is single.

And okay, she gets it. Clarke had a foolish, daydream moment where she expected Bellamy to run up and confess his love for her.

Wishful thinking. She came back to her senses soon enough.

Bellamy is quiet that week, caught up in his head. He is obviously down about his break-up. Instead of eating lunch with the rest of them in between filming, Bellamy sits on the docks by the lake alone.

Clarke gives him his space for a day. But she can’t stand seeing him out there alone, shoulders hunched against the crisp Canadian weather. She picks up her lunch and goes to join him by the docks.

Bellamy lifts his head at her approach. “Hey, Princess.”

Clarke smiles, pleased that he doesn’t seem to mind her joining him.

“How’s the wrist?” he asks.

“Healing just fine.”

She sits down beside him, keeping quiet as she twists the top off of her water bottle. Their legs dangle over the dock’s edge, his much longer than hers. The afternoon sun glints off the dark surface of the lake. It’s peaceful here.

Wordlessly, Clarke hands over the apple slices and peanut butter she grabbed from craft services. They’re Bellamy’s favorite snack.

A soft smile curves his mouth as Bellamy takes the food. It’s the first happy expression she’s seen on him in days.

They eat their lunch in comfortable silence, listening to the whistle of wind in the trees. When they’re done, Clarke glances at him, her voice careful. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Bellamy sighs. “I won’t make you listen to that.”

Her brow furrows. “Hey, no.” Clarke touches his hand. “You can talk to me. About anything, remember?”

She suspects Bellamy hasn’t opened up to anyone about the break-up. He’s the type of suffer in silence, not burden others with his problems. Clarke is similar in that sense. But they don’t do that with each other.

Bellamy stares down at her small, pale hand over his. Clarke didn’t realize she has been sweeping her thumb over his knuckles. She goes to remove her hand, but Bellamy grabs it, keeps her there.

Eventually, he starts talking, his voice low. “I’m not heartbroken or anything. Mostly I’m just pissed off. At her, yeah, but at myself most of all.”

“Why?”

He snorts, a self-deprecating sound. “Because everyone told me about her. O. Monty. Even my mom. I was too stubborn to listen. She’s not a bad person. I told myself her good qualities outweighed the bad ones and she was _trying_ to be a better…”

He shakes his head, his disappointment in himself visible as he looks over the lake. “She was only trying for me. Behind my back, she was different. She hid things from me. She _hurt_ you. I couldn’t make excuses for her anymore.”

Clarke bites the corner of her lip. “Bell, there’s something…The toy that I left on your doorstep—”

“I know,” Bellamy says. “I confronted her about that. Among other things.”

He glances at her, guilt shading his miserable eyes. “She deleted text messages that you sent me. Once, while we were at Comic-Com. Maybe other times too.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

She doesn’t know what else to say. A part of her is relieved to hear Bellamy hasn’t been ignoring her all the time, but the rest of her is just sorry for him. That relationship was unhealthier than she realized.

“Yeah,” Bellamy sighs. “It’s for the best that we ended it.”

Clarke squeezes his hand. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Bellamy gives her a smile again, less strained than when she first sat down. His body is relaxed, no longer coiled with tension. She believes him when he says, “Yeah. I’m good.”

It becomes a habit for them to sneak away to the docks together when they can. Next time they slip away during a break from filming and just sit together. The lake is quiet and peaceful, a respite from the madness on set.

On another night, they sit after a long day and catch a glimpse of the sunset. The sky blazes in vibrant orange and pink hues as the sun goes down. They don’t talk, too tired from shooting multiple takes of an emotionally heavy scene. Clarke lays her head on Bellamy’s shoulder and he tucks his arm around her. She hides her smile in his shoulder, her heart racing.

Bellamy does seem okay. With each day, he opens up more. Whatever emotions he’s harboring over the break-up he channels beautifully into playing Roman with an intensity that awes everyone.

David has no complaints about their chemistry. It feels electric in every scene Clarke plays with Bellamy. Their characters are becoming closer this season and it’s hard for Clarke sometimes to draw the line between Lyza and her, especially when those are _Bellamy’s_ eyes burning with Roman’s love and desperation.

Things are so good between them—better, even, then they were before Echo’s arrival. Bellamy never mentions the song or that drama, so Clarke keeps her mouth shut too.

She’s dying with curiosity for the song that he wrote. There are so many times she almost asks him while they’re sitting on the docks. But fear holds Clarke’s tongue. She doesn’t know that the song is for her or about her. She’s not risking ruining what they have when it is so nearly perfect.

One afternoon they’re lingering on the sidelines on set, waiting as the crew re-adjusts the lighting for a scene.

Clarke doesn’t care about the long wait, having fun teasing Bellamy. He went to bed early the night before, declining to stay up late with the rest of them.

“Was there a history documentary you couldn’t miss?” Clarke teases, grinning cheekily at him. “Or did you have to be in bed by 9 pm, Grandpa?”

“ _Grandpa_?” Bellamy repeats in mock-outrage.

He charges at her and Clarke lets out a surprised squeak when his strong arms capture her waist, trapping her against him. Bellamy’s fingers dance up and down her sides in merciless tickles.

Clarke shrieks with laughter, trying and failing to squirm out of his hold. The muscles of his firm chest press against her back and his soft lips graze her earlobe when he throws out a playful threat. Her body wracks with a delicious shiver.

“I’ll teach you to respect your elders, Princess.”

“Stop!” Clarke cries, breathless and smiling wide. “Put me down!”

“Take it back,” Bellamy orders, tickling her harder.

Her pleas are half-hearted. She’s exactly where she wants to be, wrapped in Bellamy’s arms. They’re making a scene as they laugh and he lifts her up, but Clarke doesn’t care about the crew staring at them.

“Clarke!”

She freezes at the familiar voice calling out to her. Clarke looks up and suddenly Cillian is there, walking toward her, like he’s appeared out of thin air.

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Cillian?”

Clarke jolts in surprise and Bellamy sets her down, his arms dropping from around her waist like he’s been burned. She feels the keen absence of Bellamy’s warmth when he steps away from her.

Her fake-boyfriend reaches her, wearing a grin. “Hey, Hollywood. Miss me?”

Clarke is stunned by the sight of him in Vancouver, on their set, out of nowhere. She doesn’t react when Cillian swoops down and kisses her cheek.

He leans back on his heels, a gleam of amusement lighting his dark eyes. “My flight got in early. I wanted to surprise you.” He chuckles. “Surprise.”

It dawns on her. In all of the recent drama, Clarke forgot about their plans for Cillian to visit that week. Well, that, and she’s been so completely consumed by Bellamy, she had kind of forgotten about Cillian’s existence.

They’re practically disconnected from the outside world here. Clarke is almost always on camera or getting ready to be on camera. She hasn’t looked at social media. Only Octavia has kept her in the loop when the “Becho” break-up when public.

Echo removed all of her photos of them as a couple. When doing a live video on Instagram, she also confirmed that she and Bellamy had a “mutual” break-up.

“I’m surprised all right,” Clarke mutters.

Her eyes flit to Bellamy standing nearby. His playful mood has vanished. His arms are tightly crossed, his expression carved from stone. Bellamy glares at Cillian like the man has insulted Aurora Blake.

Well, this is awkward.

Clarke pushes through the sudden, tense silence between the three of them. “Um, Cillian, this is Bellamy Blake. Bell, this is Cillian Knight.”

Cillian turns toward Bellamy and gives him a nod in greeting. “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

Bellamy’s narrowed glare doesn’t let up. “We’re actually shooting a scene now,” he says pointedly. “Closed set.”

Clarke throws him a bewildered glance. The set isn’t closed. Jasper’s girlfriend Maya is visiting too and stood on the sidelines watching as they filmed yesterday.

Cillian raises his hands. “Oh, I get it. No distractions.” He winks at Clarke. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

Clarke watches him walk away, disappearing behind the cameras and crew members that encircle him. There are people loitering everywhere. They aren’t filming any risqué scenes, so the set has no reason to close. She wonders if Cillian knows that.

“I didn’t realize you were still together,” Bellamy says, his gruff voice stealing her attention.

“Uh, yeah.” Clarke doesn’t know what to say, tugging on the sleeve of Lyza’s jumper. “He’s visiting for a few days.”

Bellamy stares, giving her a hard, unreadable look. He looks almost…betrayed. But no. That can’t be right.

The director calls for them to move to their marks. Clarke tucks her confused, conflicted emotions away in a box so she can slip into Lyza’s head. Though, ironically, Lyza’s feelings in this scene align with hers.

They’re shooting the scene where Roman accuses Lyza of trading secrets of their camp to their enemy. Their confrontation is raw and painful, layered by clashing feelings of hurt and anger on both of their parts. Lyza can’t believe her trusted comrade could believe she would betray her people—betray _him_.

Clarke is shaken when the director yells cut. She barely hears him congratulating them on nailing the scene in one take. Her breaths are shallow, her emotions so close to the surface it feels like she might crack open and bleed on the set’s floor.

Bellamy turns away from her as soon as the camera stops rolling. She blinks, and he’s just gone.

A gentle touch at her elbow startles her. “Sorry,” Harper says, wincing. Her hazel eyes are wide with concern. “Clarke, are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her voice comes out flat.

Harper hesitates. Her gaze flicks in the direction Bellamy took off to. “That was…intense.”

Clarke shrugs. The action feels forced, mechanical. “Well, that’s what the scene called for, so. Roman was pretty pissed.”

 _Not just Roman,_ a voice inside her head whispers.

Clarke shoves it away. She can’t think about that. If she thinks about Bellamy’s dark, twisted expression and the way his rough voice cracked during that take, she is going to lose it.

Harper’s brow creases, studying her. “Are you sure? That, well, that felt kind of personal.” Her voice softens. “Clarke, you flinched.”

Annoyance surges inside her, heating her veins. Clarke wishes Harper would let it go. They were _acting,_ for goodness’ sake. Doing their damn jobs. It’s a good thing they were so convincing and only needed one take.

Clarke’s lips part, about to tell Harper that she’s fine when Cillian reaches them. He’s smiling, looking impressed.

“So, this is where the magic happens,” he notes. “Pretty cool.”

Clarke turns fully toward him. “Where’s your stuff? Did you come here directly from the airport?”

Harper leaves them alone, taking Clarke’s subtle hint to let the subject drop. Clarke puts that conversation out of her mind and focuses on Cillian. He only has a duffel bag and a carry-on, which they collect before leaving set and heading to the townhouse to get him settled.

“So,” Cillian says on their walk to the residences nearby. “That’s Loverboy, huh?”

Clarke cuts him an icy side-glance. “Shut it—unless you’d like to sleep on the couch. Spoiler alert: it sucks.”

Cillian clicks his tongue. “Touchy. I brought an inflatable mattress, though, so ha!”

She punches his shoulder. Clarke acts annoyed, but she’s really glad he came.

* * *

The next day, Clarke isn’t scheduled to be on set. She’s free to visit the city with Cillian and do some sightseeing. He’s never been to Vancouver, so Clarke takes him to her favorite lunch spot, where they can catch up over food, and then they visit the Brockton Point Lighthouse.

They pose for pictures in front of the lighthouse. Cillian uploads a selfie of them onto his Instagram feed and she does the same, writing a simple “ _reunited”_ caption and a heart emoji.

Cillian snorts when he sees the photo and likes it. “Aw. That makes up for you forgetting about me.”

Clarke grimaces apologetically. “Yikes. Sorry. I totally spaced.”

“It’s cool.” Cillian doesn’t seem bothered. “You’re working up here. And you’ve got your hands full with Loverboy.”

Just like that, her spot of guilt evaporates. “Ugh. Do _not_ call him that!”

“Why not? It fits. I’m surprised he didn’t pee on you to mark his territory yesterday.”

Clarke’s nose scrunches. “That’s gross, Cillian.”

He grins, unrepentant. “It’s the truth. He was ready to kill me for _daring_ to interrupt your little flirting session—yeah, I saw that. He couldn’t keep his hands off you.”

Clarke says nothing, turning her face toward the harbor that surrounds them. The wind helps cool her heated cheeks. She flushes all over, the memory igniting like a match under her skin. Her body burns with hunger and attraction, remembering being held against Bellamy, her curves fitted to his hard lines.

Cillian leans back against the railing, crossing his arms. “So, are you gonna go for it with him?”

“What?” She scoffs. “No. I just pulled off convincing Bellamy I’m not pining for him by dating _you_.”

Cillian groans. “Clarke. You’ve had it bad for this guy for, how long? Two years? This is your shot to _stop_ pining and actually get him. I’m telling you – he’s into you.”

“You’re reading too much into it.”

He gives her a disbelieving look and she sighs.

“Look, the lines can get blurred during filming,” Clarke explains. “The scenes are intense. Emotions running high. But none of that is _real_.”

Clarke has been fooled before. She’s learned her lesson. Whirlwind romances on set can burn fast and fizzle out faster. Right now, Bellamy is on the rebound after his break-up. If he is flirting, it doesn’t mean anything.

“What if it is?” Cillian challenges.

Her mouth forms a bitter smirk. “If it was, he would have picked me. Not her.”

Cillian has nothing to say to that. There is nothing to say. Just the hard, painful-to-swallow truth. Which is, while they were on break after filming season 2, Bellamy fell for Echo and began dating her.

Clarke is, and has been, his co-star and best friend. Nothing more. She didn’t even factor in to his love life.

They leave the lighthouse after that, taking Cillian’s rental car and driving back to the set. They arrive in time for dinner being served in the common area. A few of her castmates are still around and looking to be introduced to Cillian.

Raven shakes Cillian’s hand with a cheeky smile. “I’m a fan of your Calvin Klein ad.”

Cillian preens while Clarke snorts. “Good thing Shaw isn’t around to hear that.”

“Shaw’s an Air Force pilot with a six pack and drives a motorcycle,” Raven replies dryly. “He knows I find him sexy as hell.”

Clarke nudges her friend playfully. She’s only teasing. She has seen the cute couple that Raven and Shaw make, completely committed to each other.

When Cillian gets roped into an animated discussion with Jasper and Monty, Clarke faces Raven at their table. “Where’s Bellamy?” she tries to ask casually.

Raven frowns. “Haven’t seen him since we wrapped for the day. I think he’s at his place. Still sulking, probably.”

“Sulking?”

“Blake’s been in a pissy mood all day,” Raven offers. “Don’t know what crawled up his ass, but I’d stay away.”

Concern gnaws at her gut. But Clarke intends to do as Raven says. She doesn’t feel ready to approach Bellamy after that _scene_ yesterday.

Instead, Clarke stays at the table, chatting with her castmates. Jasper recounts the hilarious prank he pulled that afternoon, which she missed, and then they help themselves to the chocolate cake being served for dessert.

Someone mentions that Clarke’s birthday is that weekend and Cillian perks up beside her. “Hold up. It’s your _birthday_ on Friday?”

“You didn’t know?” Raven demands, narrowing her eyes at Cillian.

“I didn’t tell him,” Clarke says and turns to her fake-boyfriend. “Don’t make a big deal about it!”

“Of course it’s a big deal! You only turn eighteen once, Hollywood.” Cillian ignores her protests, peering at the others at the table. “How are we celebrating?”

Jasper and Monty start chanting about a party and Clarke groans. “Now you’ve done it.”

Raven speaks over the party-planning that’s in motion. “Harper and I have this shit handled. We booked the VIP lounge at a club in the city, the Playhouse.”

“We’re getting lit, bitches!” Harper shouts from the end of the table to cheers.

Clarke’s mouth drops open, gaping at Raven. “You did what?”

“You’re welcome.”

Clarke is too tired to argue. Her own birthday celebration feels out of her hands. Her castmates will go out to the Playhouse with or without her. They’re like animals being let out their cages to roam free for the night.

She slips out and Cillian follows her back to the townhouse. Clarke tucks her jacket close around her to ward off the brisk nightly temperature. Her mood has darkened with the reminder of her 18th birthday coming up.

Cillian nudges her as they approach the house. “Why didn’t you mention your birthday? I feel like a tool for not knowing.”

“I’m not big on celebrating it.”

That’s all she says and thankfully he doesn’t push. No one on their cast or crew knows why she avoids the cheerful birthday celebrations. Except Bellamy.

* * *

Clarke films the whole day, which serves as a challenging, consuming distraction. While the cameras are rolling, she gets to be kickass Lyza. Someone else. Her thoughts, her feelings, are not her own.

She has only has time to think about Bellamy in between takes. Her mind can wander a lot while drinking water or having her make-up touched up, it turns out.

She’s not shooting any scenes with him that day. Which has Clarke both relieved and disappointed. She doesn’t know what happened last time or what’s going on with them. But Clarke still misses him.

When the day wraps, Clarke is torn between reaching out and giving Bellamy space. But when she thinks about looking for him at the docks or dropping by his place, her chest pinches with phantom pain.

It still hurts, like a tender bruise, remembering how Bellamy walked away. He left her standing there after he—or rather, _Roman_ tore into Lyza. Turned his back on the shredded pieces of her littering the set’s floor.

Clarke can’t lie to herself. Or rather, the hurt she felt can’t lie.

They weren’t just acting then. There was a sliver of truth in those cutting lines, a trace of Bellamy and a trace of her, just enough to make it painfully real.

Cillian is waiting when Clarke drags herself back to the house at the end of the day. He hustles her toward showering and changing so they can go to dinner. Clarke rushes through the motions, throwing on a black dress and the one pair of heels she packed with her.

They have a delicious dinner in the city. Cillian asks questions about the filming process and Clarke has fun breaking it down for him, separating myth from reality.

Once their entrees arrive at the table, Clarke asks, “So, what did you get up to while I was filming?”

“I was around set,” Cillian says. He smiles slightly. “This cute blonde girl gave me a tour. Bree. Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?”

Clarke snorts, wrapping pasta around the end of her fork. “I’ll find out for you.”

“Best fake-girlfriend ever.”

“Speaking of that…” she starts, bracing herself for their nice night to get awkward. “I think it’s time we call it.”

Cillian is calm, unbothered as he sips his wine. “I figured you’d say that.”

“My love life isn’t a trending topic anymore, thank God. Everyone’s seen our pictures. We can let our ‘fling’ fade out.”

Cillian nods. “Makes sense. You got Loverboy jealous.”

Pain clenches her heart. She swerves around the topic of Bellamy and hopes Cillian will follow. “I’m ready to leave the drama for the show, you know? No dating, fake or otherwise. Just focus on my music career.

Cillian doesn’t push this time, just cuts his stake and takes a bite. “You got it, Hollywood. My PR team will put out a statement. A mutual break-up. Yada, yada.”

A relieved breath whooshes through her lungs. Clean, easy, simple. A rarity, especially in the complicated lives they lead.

After dinner, they walk a bit through the populated city streets. The Vancouver weather wins out shortly. Cillian lends Clarke his jacket to ward off the biting chill in the air. They drive back in his rental car and the scenery changes to the quiet backstreets of the suburbs.

Clarke’s tall heels are noisy on the pavement as they walk up to the house. It’s a little before midnight and Cillian gives her shit about waking the neighborhood up. Clarke shushes him, laughing quietly.

She halts when they reach the townhouse doorstep. “Bellamy?”

Her eyes make him out immediately, even in the dark. Clarke knows those curls and the broad caps of those shoulders anywhere. Bellamy is sitting on the bottom stair of the stoop, holding a small, wrapped box in his lap.

Waiting for her.

Bellamy glances up. The street’s lighting casts a faint glow on his tight jaw and full, grimacing lips as he takes in the sight of her and Cillian, their close posture.

“Hey,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

His eyes roam over her face, dip to her mouth painted with muted red lipstick, and the dress that hugs her figure.

He swallows thickly. “You look pretty.”

Clarke startles like she’s had an electric shock. Three simple words that electrify her, because they came from him.

“What are you doing here?” she asks softly.

“It’s almost midnight,” Bellamy says as an explanation.

Which it is.

It’s nearly midnight, the day before her birthday. The only time Clarke has celebrated and mourned in equal measure, in the dark of night, with Bellamy.

Clarke presses a hand to her throat where a hard knot has formed. She’s overwhelmed with love for him, among many other feelings. But mainly there is love because Bellamy remembered and made sure to be here, waiting for her to come home.

She turns to Cillian, rasping through her wet throat, “Can you give us a minute?”

Cillian nods, staying silent as he steps around Bellamy and heads up the front stoop into the house. The door clicks shut behind him.

“Bell,” she whispers. “I can’t believe you…”

“What?” Bellamy asks, standing up and striding over to her. His brow furrows and he looks almost angry. “Did you think I’d forget?”

Clarke shrugs helplessly. “No, not forget. I didn’t think you’d come by.” Her eyes search his face. “Where have you been?”

Bellamy drops his gaze, guilt winding around him and tightening his muscles like climbing vines. “Acting like a coward. Our last scene together…” They both cringe. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It was intense,” she agrees.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, soft and regretful. “I…I got carried away, I guess.”

His eyes plead with her not to push. Those deep, expressive eyes are her weakness. 

She is torn down the middle, her head raging in a battle with her heart.

Her instincts tell her to dig deeper, insisting it was more than getting carried away. She and Bellamy don’t brush things aside—they talk them out, figure it out together. They need to fix this, for the sake of their professional and personal relationship.

But her best friend is asking her for this, when he never asks for anything. Clarke can’t deny him.

Instead, Clarke glances deliberately at the wrapped box cradled in his arm. She injects some lightness in her voice. “Is that present for me?”

His stare softens, grateful that she’s moving on. Bellamy chuckles weakly and hands her the gift. “Happy birthday, Princess.”

She unwraps the shiny blue paper to reveal a small velvet box. Clarke’s pulse thrums with anticipation as she pops the box open and finds a delicate silver necklace inside. Hanging from the chain is an eighth music note, glittering with tiny black diamonds.

Clarke gasps. “Oh. It’s beautiful.”

Bellamy’s lips curl into a hopeful smile. “You like it?”

Her eyes raise to his and she beams at him. “I love it,” Clarke gushes. “Put it on me?”

At Bellamy’s nod, Clarke turns around to give him her back and picks up her hair. She feels Bellamy’s breath touch her skin first, causing a shiver to skid down her spine.

Clarke is aware of him in every flaring nerve ending of her body, his warmth and his scent. She has to lock her muscles in place so she won’t sway toward him, press closer.

Bellamy loops the necklace around her throat. Her stomach dips when his fingers graze the nape of her neck, securing the clasp.

There’s a pause in which it feels like the world has stopped turning. Bellamy’s fingers linger on the back of her neck for a beat longer.

Then he steps around her, his features smooth. Bellamy’s eyes fall to the necklace before returning to her face, his gaze warm.

“Perfect.”

Clarke touches the eighth note charm. “Thank you.”

Bellamy nods back at her. “Your dad would be proud of you, Princess. You made your dream happen.”

“I wish he could be here to see it,” she tells him, her voice cracking. Grief and longing swell in her chest, pressing sharply against her lungs. It makes it hard to breathe.

“I know,” Bellamy murmurs.

Her dad got into a car accident on her twelfth birthday. That morning he had gone out to buy her a cake from her favorite bakery. He died on impact. 

Clarke has never been able to celebrate a birthday since, her heart too mangled by grief and guilt and pain. Which was made worse by her mom forcing birthday celebrations on her throughout her teen years.

Her mom isn’t one for talking about her feelings and Clarke struggled to express them. Her birthday became a dreaded event, mourning for her dad and fighting with her mom over gifts and a party she didn’t want. Eventually, her mom stopped trying to force the issue.

It’s not something Clarke likes to talks about. She only told Bellamy that night they spilled their guts to each other, staying up late talking. He understood her in a way no one else did. And she got pieces of him too, the dark hidden parts they didn’t share with other people.

Clarke steps forward to hug him, burying herself in her best friend’s comfort. Bellamy’s arm wraps around her back to hold her tightly, his other hand stroking over her hair. She hides her face in his warm neck, swallowing back tears.

They sink into the embrace. Silently, implicitly, the pieces that fractured fit themselves back together.

* * *

Clarke wakes up to chatter in the morning. Vaguely familiar voices filter from the kitchen into the bedroom and draw her out of sleep.

For a long moment, Clarke just lies there, content and still. She’s well-rested, getting a good night sleep for the first time in days. After making up with Bellamy, she was able to go to sleep without tossing and turning from the deep ache in her chest.

Eventually, Clarke climbs out of bed, persuaded by her full bladder. She tip-toes over Cillian passed out on the inflatable mattress and slips into the bathroom.

The aroma of fresh coffee tugs her toward the kitchen. The scent is rich and thick. Definitely not the crappy stuff they brew at home.

Clarke rounds the corner and spots Bellamy seated at their kitchen table. Wearing his thick glasses, he looks soft and cuddle-worthy in the buttery morning light. He has two paper coffee cups in front of him and an array of bagels.

Bellamy’s expression warms, catching her walking in. “Morning, Princess.”

“Morning,” Clarke greets, her mouth curving into a reflexive smile. 

She’s self-conscious about her messy bedhead and the pillow creases probably on her face.

But Bellamy doesn’t seem to notice any of it. He’s smiling at her, brown eyes fond behind his glasses, and her insecurities slide off of her like water.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Clarke says. “Slept like a baby actually.”

Raven snorts, leaning against the counter, a paper coffee cup in her hand. “I bet Cillian wore you out.”

Clarke cringes, almost dropping the cup Bellamy hands her. Heat scorches her face. She can’t believe Raven just _said_ that – and in front of Bellamy! It’s mortifying.

Clarke dares to peek at Bellamy, gauging his reaction. He’s not meeting her eyes now, glaring intently into his coffee cup. All she has is the hard ridge of his jaw to work with.

No. Clarke refuses to let them be awkward around each other again. She side-steps Raven’s comment as if she didn’t hear it.

“What’s all of this?” She asks, nodding her chin at the table spread.

“Bellamy brought breakfast,” Raven explains while he’s silent. “Oh, happy birthday!”

Clarke smiles briefly at Raven over her shoulder and helps herself to an everything bagel. She sits at the table with Bellamy, not letting the tension deter her. “Thank you,” she murmurs to him.

Bellamy raises his gaze to hers, his dark brows drawn together. His lips part, about to say something, when he’s interrupted by Cillian breezing into the kitchen. 

“Morning!”

Clarke glances his way and nearly spits out her coffee. Cillian is walking around shirtless, wearing only a tight pair of navy boxer-briefs. He’s obviously comfortable with his body in his line of work, but she still can’t believe him.

“Oh my god, Cillian,” Clarke hisses. “Put some clothes on!”

Cillian leers at her. “Nothing you haven’t seen before, Hollywood. And Raven doesn’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Raven responds, likely just to get a rise out of her.

Bellamy utters a low noise of disgust in his throat. 

Oblivious, Cillian goes about his routine of preparing a protein shake. Clarke feels as if the heat is permanently seared into her cheeks. She tries to ignore Bellamy’s agitation and eat her bagel.

As soon as she swallows the last bite, Bellamy stands up from the table. “We should get ready.” At her alarmed look, he adds, “We’re first on the schedule to film.”

Clarke nods. She just needs to throw something on other than her pajamas. Costume and make-up will be taken care of by the professionals. Her stomach clenches with dread thinking about going onto set today—the onslaught of birthday wishes that await her.

It’s the same every year. Last time they were filming, Bellamy somehow convinced the crew to skip out on buying her a cake and singing happy birthday. She had to endure the well wishes, but other than that, it was a normal, uneventful day.

Cillian sets his travel mug on the counter and unplugs the blender. “Give me a second to change and I’ll walk you, birthday girl.” 

Bellamy bristles beside her, throwing Cillian a dark glare. His protectiveness is sweet, but unnecessary. She can handle hearing the “b” word without breaking down.

“I’ve got it,” Bellamy tells him flatly. “We always walk to set together.”

Cillian arches his brow. “Really? I haven’t seen you here since I’ve been in town, bro.”

Clarke could gag on the testosterone levels in the kitchen. All the stupid male posturing is annoying and pointless. Cillian is just being a dick for the fun of it and Bellamy is being overprotective towards her _fake_ boyfriend.

Bellamy stiffens, his eyes narrowing, and Clarke jumps in before they get the chance to do something dumb.

She stomps toward Cillian and flicks his nipple, making him cringe. “Behave,” she growls at him. Then she glances threateningly at his crotch and lowers his voice so only he can hear her. “When I put in a word with Bree, I can shoot your chances to hell. Remember that.”

Clarke exits the kitchen, towing Bellamy by his jacket sleeve behind her. She leads them into her room and he lets her prod him toward the swivel chair in the corner. The bed is made, the inflatable bed in its hiding place, courtesy of Cillian.

Bellamy keeps quiet while she picks out jeans and a sweater from the closet. His arms are crossed, watching her sullenly.

“Think you can refrain from killing Cillian when we go out tonight?” she asks dryly.

“No promises,” Bellamy scoffs.

Clarke turns her head to shoot him a look and he widens his eyes at her behind his glasses. She’s annoyed and Bellamy has no right to look so adorable.

“The guy’s a prick.”

Clarke glares, parking her hand on hip. “Why is it that you never like the people I go out with? You hated Finn—”

“My judgment was right on that,” Bellamy cuts in. “He fucking cheated on you _and_ Raven.”

“What about Niylah?”

“She’s the one who didn’t like _me_.”

“You weren’t exactly Mr. Welcome Wagon,” Clarke counters and Bellamy’s mouth twitches like he might laugh. “And now Cillian is a problem too?”

Bellamy shrugs. His expression is warmer now, his eyes bright with amusement and a gleam of fondness. Like the sunshine after the dark clouds have cleared. She struggles to tear her eyes away when he looks that beautiful. 

“Maybe no one is good enough for you.”

Clarke forces herself to turn away, hiding her smile. She’s not going to encourage this pattern. He’s ridiculous.

“You deserve the best,” Bellamy continues softly. “Better than someone that only cares about partying at a club on a day that you hate celebrating.”

“He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him about Dad.”

A wrinkle puckers Bellamy’s forehead when she faces him, carrying the clothes she’s going to change into. “Why not?”

“It’s heavy stuff and we’re not…” _Real._ “It’s casual. Fun. Nothing serious.”

Clarke heads into the bathroom to change quickly and then they’re on the way to set.

Bellamy hovers close to her like he’s her bodyguard, ready to ward off unwanted birthday wishes and uncomfortable questions. She loves him, even more than usual today.

Thankfully, they jump right into filming after they’re done with the make-up department. Clarke is consumed with being in-character, too busy to hate the reminders of her birthday. Bellamy and Wells keep her laughing in between takes.

The crew doesn’t bring out a cake or force a song on her—which Clarke suspects she has Bellamy to thank for, again.

The day is another busy, chaotic blur and evening comes quickly. Their house is another state of chaos, with Raven and Harper hyped to go out to the club, blasting pop music as they get ready.

She sneaks in a nap when she gets back from shooting before she’s hounded by Raven to take a shower and get changed.

Clarke is styling her hair when her phone chimes with a text.

 **Bellamy:** _you wanna bail on tonight, just say the word._

Fondness unfurls like a flower in her chest, spreading warmth through her veins. Smiling, Clarke types out a reply.

 **Clarke:** _i’m tempted. what’s plan B?_

 **Bellamy:** _pizza at my place. we’ll watch that medical soap opera. no visitors._

Clarke’s smile broadens.

 **Clarke:** _you hate grey’s anatomy._

 **Bellamy:** _it’s your not-birthday. we’ll watch whatever you want._

 _I love you_ , she thinks. _I’d rather be with you, anywhere, than with anyone else._

 **Clarke:** _that sounds perfect. but I don’t think raven’s letting me out of this._

 **Bellamy:** _raincheck then. as soon as we’re back in LA_

She’s grinning down at her phone when Raven pounds on the door, asking if she’s ready yet. Clarke sighs. Time to face the music.

They order an Uber to take them into the city, dropping them off at a street corner by the nightclub. Cillian helps her out of the car, chatting with Raven and Harper. As they approach the club, Clarke tries to muster up some enthusiasm.

They run into the rest of the group at the entrance. And suddenly, dragging herself out to the club is worth it for the look on Bellamy’s face.

His jaw drops when he sees her. Clarke’s pulse sprints while he stares at her legs in the tight skirt and black platform heels she has on.

Their friends disappear. The club disappears. It’s just Bellamy and his eyes on her skin.

Their trance is broken by Raven pulling on her hand, tugging her into the nightclub. They ride the perks of obnoxious teenage celebrities, gaining admittance and being lead into the private VIP lounge immediately.

A bucket of Dom Perignon champagne on ice is waiting for them. Emori pops the bottle and pours Clarke the first fizzy glass.

Clarke feels a warm trickle of appreciation for her friends. They did this for her. She’ll put a smile on her face and enjoy it. That’s what her dad would want for her.

It doesn’t take long for their group to drink through the bottle of champagne. Someone orders a round of shots next.

Murphy taunts Bellamy into doing tequila shots with him. The pulsing energy of the club and their rowdy group feeds off each other. She’s actually having fun.

Then, Clarke notices the tall, gorgeous brunette hitting on Bellamy. She’s left her group in the lounge to lean over Bellamy where he’s sprawled on the plush velvet couch, granting a glimpse of her cleavage.

Not that Clarke blames the woman. There is something entirely irresistible about Bellamy when he’s had a few drinks.

His body is a relaxed, sinful spread, wearing a slightly cocky smirk. He’s uninhibited, pulling up the arrogance he used to swagger around with a few years ago.

Only this isn’t the false-bravo of an eighteen-year-old. His cockiness is a real layer peeled back by the alcohol, the self-assurance of a man that knows damn well what he’s doing.

Well, Clarke isn’t willing to be Bellamy’s rebound after his break-up. But she’s jealous of the lucky bitch that is. That woman isn’t risking her heart being broken. She gets hot, easy sex with Bellamy Blake.

The brunette’s hair forms a dark, glossy curtain over their faces leaning close together. Clarke pours herself another shot and looks away.

Murphy and Emori are the first couple to hit the dance floor, following Jasper’s lead where he is dancing up a storm in the eye of the crowd. Soon Clarke is pulled to her feet by Cillian and he spins her out of his arms, her blonde curls fanning out.

The world tilts when Cillian dips her at the waist. Clarke clutches his arms upon being straightened up. “Easy, big guy. I might puke on you.”

Cillian snorts a laugh. “Too many tequila shots, huh?”

_That—and watching that woman wrapped around Bellamy._

Clarke dances with Cillian. She has practice slipping out of her head when she’s acting. She does that now, allowing the thumping beat of the music and her body’s movements take over.

Sweat slicks her skin. Clarke shakes out her hair. She lets Cillian spin her again for the breeze it brings and laughs when she collides with his chest.

The crowd around them parts for a moment and Clarke catches a glimpse of Bellamy.

He’s left the VIP lounge, but hasn’t stepped foot on the dance floor. Leaning back against the wall, he stands still among the swaying, gyrating bodies.

And he’s staring right at her.

Clarke feels the burn of his intense gaze. Her body jolts, pressed against Cillian’s back. Her insides shift to liquid heat.

Bellamy doesn’t look away, even when their eyes meet and hold. Clarke thought she had seen all of his expressions, playing across from him for years. This is one she can’t read. 

Cillian turns them, jerking Clarke back into the moment, their dance. She twists her head to look over her shoulder. Bellamy isn’t standing there anymore.

She’d believe she had imagined it, if it wasn’t for the spark that lingers in her veins.

Clarke dances for another minute before she escapes the dance floor. She can’t let it go. Maybe it’s the alcohol brewed with wishful thinking. But that look felt like more. More than blurred character lines. More than shallow lust.

Something _real_.

She doesn’t find him standing on the outskirts of the dance floor anywhere or in the lounge. At their table, Monty tells her Bellamy stepped outside for some air.

Clarke goes searching for a back entrance of the club. She finds a door in a dim hallway where the restrooms are, leading her to a back alley and cool, open air. The air is refreshing on her overheated skin.

Bellamy turns when the door shuts with a bang. He’s surprised to see her, before his expression closes off. Those eyes can’t hide from her though. A bit glassy from alcohol, pupils dilated, but storming with emotion.

“Clarke, what are you doing?” he demands.

Her eyebrows raise. “Monty said you came outside. I’m just…checking on you.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine. Go back inside.”

That isn’t happening. Clarke approaches him, her heels clicking on the ground. “No, you’re not. Bellamy, what’s wrong? _Talk_ to me.”

She doesn’t understand. A few hours ago, everything was fine. Bellamy offered to rescue her from going out, invited her to his place for them to hang out alone.

“No, I’m not,” he agrees hotly. “But I _have_ to be, because it isn’t my fucking place to—”

He snaps his jaw shut, cutting himself off. Frustration flares in his eyes.

Clarke steps closer. Even in her heels, she only reaches his chin and has to tilt her head back. His scent fills her nose: rich cologne and leather. Desire pulses inside her, running beneath her confusion and frustration.

“ _What_?” she presses. “Isn’t your place to what?”

A humorless smile twists his mouth. “To hate seeing you with him,” he says, so low it’s nearly inaudible.

But she does hear it. As loud as if he shouted the words. Clarke inhales sharply.

She doesn’t get the chance to ask, probe for more. Bellamy leans away from her, shoving his fingers through his thick curls. His face tightens, his jaw flexing with tension.

“Damn it,” he swears. “I’m drunk. Don’t—”

She is too, most likely. Or at least had enough drinks to blame this on liquid courage and lowered inhibitions.

Clarke grabs the collar of his leather jacket, hauling him closer to press her lips to his. She’s waited three years for this—a sliver of a chance, a miracle, for Bellamy to want her even a fraction of how she wants him. She’ll take this.

Bellamy is still, only for a heartbeat. Then his control seems to snap. With a throaty groan, his arm snags her waist and yanks her closer.

He kisses her hungrily, the sheer force of his passion tilting her head back and making her knees tremble. His tongue slips between her parted mouth, stroking hers, and drawing a breathy moan out of her. 

Clarke pants for breath, her heart pounding hard and wild. She takes her chance to taste him, licking his bottom lip. He's a drop of strawberry champagne and everything she's ever wanted. 

The brick wall of the alley digs into her back. Clarke hadn’t noticed them moving. With Bellamy’s hand pressed to the wall, he has her caged under his warmth, his ambush of hot, demanding, toe-curling kisses.

The spark he lit inside her on the dance floor rages into a fire and burns through her. She burns for him. 

His free hand squeezes her hip and after a moment, Clarke gets the message. She hitches her thigh around his waist, letting Bellamy press in between her legs.

This feels even better, tangled around each other. His chest heaves against hers. His fingers slide under the skirt, grazing the rough calloused tips on her upper thigh and Clarke shudders in anticipation.

Yes. She wants to feel those fingers everywhere, all over her skin.

Abruptly, her desire cuts out, like someone has doused her with ice water. Clarke goes cold and stiff.

It isn’t because of the hard bulge against her lower stomach. True, she’s only felt one other erection in her life and this one is a tad more intimidating. But fear isn’t what stops her.

No, it’s the blood-chilling cacophony of Echo’s voice playing in her ears. A horrible, unwelcome reminder.

“ _You can try to get under my skin. He’s on mine._ ”

Then: “ _He chose to be with me.”_

“ _Stop chasing after scraps of his attention. Stop embarrassing yourself.”_

Oh, god. Is that what she’s doing? Again? Chasing after the scraps of Bellamy’s affection, taking confused jealousy over love?

She swore she wouldn’t do this. She won’t accept being his rebound or his emotional cushion after his relationship ended. Not at the expense of her heart.

Clarke breaks the kiss. Her lips are tender and swollen. “Bellamy, stop.”

He does, leaning back to look at her. Concern breaks through the haze of desire over his dark eyes. “You okay?”

She pushes lightly at his shoulders, his body holding her up against the wall. “I can’t do this.”

Bellamy steps back, giving her space, which she appreciates. She needs to clear her head completely and ignore the demanding urge to say _screw everything_ , just throw herself back at him. Consequences be damned.

He isn’t helping, licking his swollen bottom lip. He regards her worriedly, her sweet best friend. “Was that too much? Should I—”

Clarke shakes her head. How can she possibly say that he was perfect? He made her feel more desired than she ever has. He’s an amazing kisser, better than she imagined.

But she can’t tell him the truth. Her brain scrambles for an excuse to save face.

“No, it’s…Cillian,” she blurts, wincing.

She almost regrets using her fake-boyfriend as a scapegoat when Bellamy flinches like she’s slapped him. Emotions blaze in his eyes again, quick flashes that she can’t catch. At last, Bellamy’s jaw hardens.

“Right,” Bellamy grits out. “Your boyfriend.”

She nods weakly. “Yes. I can’t do this…to him.”

He steps further away from her, rubbing a hand across his face. Clarke withstands the craving to pull him back, steal another kiss. Her head knows better. The rest of her screams in protest.

“Let’s just forget about this,” Bellamy suggests. “It never happened.”

Her brows draw together as she hesitates. “Do you think we can do that?”

“We have to,” he replies firmly. “Besides, it didn’t mean anything, right? We’ve been drinking. It was a mistake.”

This time, Clarke flinches. _A mistake._

Tears sting her eyes. She was right to protect herself. Bellamy is just looking for someone. A warm body. It meant nothing to him.

“Clarke,” Bellamy starts, his voice softer.

She can’t hear anymore. Clarke clenches her teeth, pushing back the onslaught of tears. “Agreed. I should head back inside.”

She reaches for the door, as fast as she can in her heels. Another miserable fucking birthday.

* * *

What might be worse than avoiding each other is pretending to be okay around him when she’s dying inside.

She’s not just acting when the cameras are rolling. Now, Clarke has to keep up the pretense around Bellamy whenever they’re in the same room together.

Pretend her heart didn’t shatter like glass hitting the floor. Pretend she isn’t haunted by memories of having him, kissing him.

Cillian leaves the weekend of her birthday, taking a flight back to L.A. They agree to end their arrangement and release a statement about a mutual break-up later that week.

Everyone around her offers sympathy after hearing the news and Clarke lets them think that’s the reason why she breaks and cries on set one day.

Bellamy seeks her out with a stilted offer to talk, if she needs it. Clarke slips into her actor mask and says that she’s fine, ready to move on.

They don’t talk. About Cillian, about what happened in the alley, about anything.

They do their job, filming together when they have to. But by some unspoken agreement, she and Bellamy are never alone together after her birthday. They only hang out in groups with the others.

Clarke is worn down, exhausted. Most days she’s going through the motions, while a homesickness for L.A. fills her gut. She’s ready to wrap up filming and go back to real life. Maybe some distance is what she and Bellamy need right now.

Then it arrives: the finished script for the finale. Clarke’s dread and hope bound together. The draft that Clarke laid her eyes on featured the long-awaited kiss scene between Lyza and Roman.

There were some last-minute changes to the script. Clarke flips through the pages one morning, seated across from Raven in their kitchen. She goes straight to the big scene between Lyza and Roman…

But there’s no kiss.

Clarke checks again and again, flipping through the pages. The scene is nowhere to be found. Lyza and Roman have an emotional talk before the final battle, healing from their conflict and forgiving each other. They call each other _comrades_ again, for fuck’s sake.

Clarke can’t believe this. It’s a cop-out. Just another almost, scratching the surface of their deep, complicated bond. Their fans are going to be pissed. _She_ is pissed.

“Woah,” Raven says, teasing. “You’ve got your ‘Wanheda’ face on. What’s wrong?”

Clarke presses her lips together, fuming. “I need to talk to David.”

She hunts their showrunner down later that day. Lucky for her, he happens to be on set. He always takes over the writing and directing for their season’s finales.

Clarke finds him in the space he uses as an office. She knocks and he tells her to come in. She shuts the door behind her, striding into the room with the script clutched in her fist.

“Clarke,” David says, not giving her his full attention as he makes notes for himself, a pen in his hand. “What’s up?”

“You cut the kiss scene.”

He nods. “Yes, that was one of the changes we made for the final script.”

Clarke exhales sharply. “ _Why_? It made perfect sense for it to happen! The tension has been building between Lyza and Roman all season. This feels…anticlimactic.”

 _That_ gets David’s attention. He doesn’t take well to having his ideas questioned. His head snaps up, his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t expect for you to understand,” David starts in a patronizing, I’m-the-boss tone. “There are certain decisions that are made when looking at the big picture…”

Blah blah blah. Clarke tunes him out at this point. All she hears is more baiting—a cheap trick to keep their fans on the hook and watching next season on the chance that the will they/won’t they romance of the leads will be answered.

Clarke only starts listening again when Bellamy’s name comes up.

She cuts him off, sure that she heard wrong. “Bellamy?”

“It was his idea,” David tells her, “And I completely agree. Roman and Lyza have a companionship that can’t be defined in simple romantic terms…”

Bullshit. It’s all bullshit. But what else does she expect from this man?

Clarke leaves their meeting more furious than before. Her heartbeat is thundering, her hands shaking from the tidal wave of anger that crashed into her hearing Bellamy’s name. He did this.

Why? Was kissing her such a _terrible_ experience that he doesn’t want a repeat?

No. Clarke doesn’t accept that. She knows what she felt in that alley. Not just their chemistry, but literally felt the evidence of Bellamy being turned on. He kissed her with greed, with desperation, like he had been waiting a lifetime to taste her. 

She has to confront him. Clarke can’t take the tip-toeing around the issue, the faking, the not knowing anymore.

Bellamy is in the make-up trailer, getting his face done by one of the artists. He’s already in costume, wearing Roman’s blue Henley shirt that stretches across his thick, muscular arms. The sight of his exposed forearms nearly sets her off track.

Clarke should wait, not do this here. But she can’t. She feels as if she’s going to burst out of her skin.

“Can I talk to you?” she demands, storming up to him. It’s not really a question. “Alone,” she adds pointedly.

Bellamy is taken back, she can tell. They haven’t been alone in weeks. But he nods, slipping out of the make-up chair, and following after Clarke when she strides out of the trailer and takes them to a secluded spot by a line of trees.

Clarke spins around to face him, her chin tipped up challengingly. “You convinced David to cut the kiss out of the script.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t deny it. Clarke shakes her head, baffled. For a moment, she’s too frustrated and stunned to form words.

“You’re upset,” Bellamy notes, frowning down at her. He seems as confused as she is. “Why? I thought you’d be relieved.”

“Relieved?” Clarke repeats, loud and incredulous. The idea of being _relieved_ to not have to kiss Bellamy is unfathomable.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable after…your birthday,” he explains, guilt and hurt darkening his gaze. “So, I went to David and suggested we scrape the kiss.”

Clarke stares at Bellamy. He thought he was doing her a favor. She’s never wanted to kiss and shake someone so badly in her life. This thoughtful, ridiculous, clueless man.

They have gotten nowhere with pretending. Time for brutal honesty.

“That night,” she starts, “I was uncomfortable because I didn’t want to be your rebound after Echo. Not because I don’t want to kiss you. I did. I do.”

Bellamy’s eyes grow wide. “You…what about Cillian?”

Oh, hell. Here goes nothing.

“I asked Cillian to pretend to date me,” Clarke admits, her cheeks heating. “It was a set-up. I needed people to stop talking about _us_ and he agreed for the publicity.”

Bellamy is silent for a long moment, his mouth parting and closing as he gathers his thoughts. Dread pools in her gut waiting for his reaction. What must he think of her?

“It wasn’t real?” he asks at last. “You and him never…”

The flush spreads from her face down to her neck. This is embarrassing.

“No,” Clarke confirms, fiddling with her eighth note necklace. “None of it was real.”

Bellamy exhales slowly. She doesn’t understand what she’s seeing on his face. A glint in his eye, the tension melting away from his tense mouth until he is smiling slightly. 

“What did you mean, you wanted people to stop talking about _us_?”

Clarke grimaces. “The drama online. The song I wrote about you, Bellamy. I—”

He raises a hand, halting her confession. “Wait. You wrote a song about me?” he demands. “What song?”

“ _Driver’s License_ ,” she says. His expression turns awed. “You…you really didn’t know?”

Bellamy shakes his head, letting out a brief, shocked laugh. “No, Princess. I mean, I heard the gossip. I didn't think it was true, that you felt that way about me, but..." 

His eyes meet hers, wide with amazement. "You meant what you said?" 

"Which part?" 

"You love me," he asks in a low, reverent voice. 

"Yes," she whispers. 

Clarke tries to duck her head, but Bellamy doesn't let her. His fingers slip under her chin, gently lifting her face to his. 

Bellamy smiles, wider than before, his happiness unrestrained and crinkling the corners of his bright eyes. 

“Have you written any other songs about me?”

“All of them,” Clarke confesses quietly. “All of them are about you.”

Bellamy kisses her, his large hand claiming her waist. She gasps as his other hand slips into her hair, tightening through the strands as his mouth consumes hers.

He kisses her thoroughly, deeply, sweeping away every doubt left inside her about who he wants.

Clarke clings onto his arms, her toes curling in her boots. It all feels so wonderfully good. Her veins hum with joy and desire. His tongue dips into her mouth, stroking hers, and she moans loud.

She never wants Bellamy stop kissing her. Screw food. Screw air. Forget about everything that isn’t _this_.

Someone wolf-whistles nearby and they spring apart. With a jolt, Clarke remembers where they are. On set, in full view of any castmate or crew member passing by.

Bellamy doesn’t go far, though, keeping his arms curled around her. His slick mouth curves up into a pleased smile. His forehead grazes hers as he murmurs, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Clarke does have an idea. “I bet I’ve waited it longer,” she teases. Her hands can’t keep off of him either, toying with the curly ends of his hair.

“Let’s agree we’ve both been stupid,” Bellamy suggests, smiling down at her.

He leans down to kiss her again and Clarke forces herself to say, “Bell, wait. What about Echo?”

“What about her?” Bellamy counters. “We’re done. Besides, the only reason I asked her out in the first place was to get over _you_.”

Clarke goes still. “What?”

“You’re younger than me,” Bellamy explains. His wide palms stroke up her back when she stiffens in protest, soothing her as he goes on.

“You’re my co-star. You’re my best friend. There were a hundred reasons for me to keep my feelings to myself. But none of them mattered. I loved you anyway. I'm in love with you, Clarke.”

Suddenly, she longs for a pen and her writing notebook. Clarke needs to write this feeling down, immortalize it in lyrics so she never forgets this moment. Happiness fizzes inside her like tiny bright bubbles of champagne.

“We’ve been idiots,” Clarke concludes, grinning widely.

“The biggest,” Bellamy agrees, kissing her again and sucking on her bottom lip. She shivers as his mouth trails light, teasing kisses across her jaw and down her neck.

“I want,” Clarke rasps breathlessly, her brain stalled with Bellamy nuzzling at her neck, kissing and nipping her skin. “I want—”

“Tell me,” he prods her. “Tell me what you want, Princess.”

“To hear the song you wrote about me.”

Bellamy chuckles, his lips tickling her throat. “Who told you? Octavia? Jasper?”

“So it’s true.”

He pulls back, seeming amused by her wonder and excitement. Bellamy cups her face, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. “Yeah. It’s not—I’m not a lyricist like you. It’s not very good.”

“I bet it is,” Clarke tells him warmly. “But I want to hear it, even if it sucks.”

Bellamy laughs. “Okay. When we get back to L.A., I’ll show you the damn song.”

* * *

They wrap filming and production in the next two weeks. If everyone didn’t already know they are together, they do after seeing them as a couple at the season wrap party. Clarke is blissfully in Bellamy’s arms all night, dancing with him, and trading kisses.

Those two weeks are a blessing and a torment. Clarke is happier than she's ever been. She's dating her best friend. But she's homesick for L.A. too, ready to get back to their normal life. 

She'll miss their lunches by the dock, but Clarke wants public dates with Bellamy, to hold his hand on the street proudly, and to fall asleep together in her real bed. 

Bellamy keeps his promise to her. The day after they fly home to L.A., he invites her to his place. Clarke drives herself down the familiar roads to his house, this time with excitement fluttering in her stomach.

Bellamy opens the door for her once she hits the driveway, smiling brightly as he watches her walk up.

He always looks good, in costume as Roman or dressed up for events. But Clarke is particularly fond of how Bellamy looks now, soft and slightly rumpled from sleep. His curls are a little messy and his feet bare in gray jogger pants.

“Hey,” she greets, unable to help smiling at him.

“Hey, you,” Bellamy replies.

He tugs her in by the hand, catching her against his chest. Clarke hugs him, pressing her cheek to his cotton hoodie. She steals a whiff of his familiar scent. Bellamy holds her and kisses the crown of her head.

A loud bark pierces the air. Cerberus comes running, sprinting in excited circles around their legs. He barks for Clarke’s attention.

“Hi, Cerberus,” Clarke laughs. She steps away from Bellamy and bends down to rub Cerberus’s head. “How’s my good boy doing?”

She enters the house with Cerberus glued to her side. Clarke digs out the treat from her purse and feeds it to him, beaming as his tails flaps from side to side. The dog often forgets his large size and launches himself at her.

Bellamy has to rescue her, scooping her up for the floor. “He’s a beast. You okay?”

Clarke waves her hand. “Fine. He just missed me.”

“He did,” Bellamy agrees, looking down at his dog with exasperated fondness. Cerberus perks up under his dad’s attention and they both laugh at him.

They play with Cerberus for a while, tossing his toys around the living room for him to retrieve and bring back, soaking up the praise they give him. They make up for lost time, the months Cerberus was stuck at a friend’s house while Bellamy was in Vancouver.

Eventually, Bellamy takes her by the hand and leads her to his bedroom. The butterflies kick up a fuss in her stomach again. She’s been in Bellamy’s room before to hang out, but everything feels different now, charged and new.

Clarke sits down on the bed, slipping off her sneakers. She watches Bellamy comb through his closet for a minute and returns with a thin leather journal.

Her mouth quirks. Of course. Bellamy, the history buff, wouldn’t keep lyrics on a laptop. She wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote them by hand with a quill pen.

Bellamy sits beside her and hands the journal over, opened to the exact page. His hands rub over his thighs, betraying his nervousness at her reading the song.

Clarke lays her hand over his to soothe him. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do,” he says, huffing out a sigh. Then he flashes a self-deprecating smile. “It’s scary, letting people inside your head. You’re brave, Princess.”

She kisses him softly in thanks. Then her eyes turn to the page, scanning the lyrics written in Bellamy’s scrawl.

 _“_ _Thoughts of you and me keep passing by  
Like ships in the night, we never collide  
Need you here but after all this time  
You can't be replaced even if I try_

_I'm looking at her face but I'm seeing you  
She's sleeping on your side, what can I do?  
We should be heart to heart, my mind is on you  
I try, I really do_

_Every time I think I've found somebody  
I just wish that somebody was you  
There's no way that someone else could make me ever  
Feel the same way that you do  
No one compares to you_

_Make it hard for me to love again_ _  
Oh, where do I start and when do you end?  
Even if I tell myself I can  
I know that I'll break (I'll break)  
Before I can bend..."_

“Bellamy…This is _amazing_.”

She glances up from the page to his shy, not-quite believing expression. “Really?”

Her heart squeezes. He is so unaware of his own brilliance. “Yes, really. You should sell this. Let another artist sing it, but you’ll get the writing credits.”

Bellamy hesitates. “The song’s personal. I’m not sure I want it recorded and put out there.”

Clarke understands that. Her dream is to share her music with the world, as raw and personal as the process can be. The reward of reaching other people with her music is worth the exposure, but not everyone feels that way.

“That’s okay,” she tells him easily. “The song really is amazing, though.” Clarke runs her fingers reverently over the page. “I can’t believe you wrote this about me.”

Bellamy kisses her shoulder. He draws her into his arms, letting the notebook fall away. Clarke suspects he doesn’t want to discuss the song and she’s fine with letting it go, especially in exchange for Bellamy rolling her underneath him and kissing her passionately.

She loves the press of his strong, warm body on top of hers. Clarke parts her thighs to let him in, hooking her legs around his. She sinks her fingers into his curls, tangling through his hair as her body bends like a bow to get closer, more. Her skin flushes, arousal throbbing hot in her veins.

Their mouths chase each other with deep kisses, tongue stroking, hungry for each other’s taste. Bellamy’s hands are everywhere, exploring the flesh at her hips, the curves of her sides, up her back. Her skin tingles at each point of contact.

She’s ready to tear these clothes of out their way when Cerberus whines. He scratches at the closed bedroom door.

They break apart and Clarke laughs. “Looks like you’ll have to share my attention with him.”

“As long as I get you, I don’t mind.”

Clarke melts. She kisses him again for that and they’re swept away for a minute in a tide of desire. Then Cerberus whines loudly at the door.

Bellamy groans, dragging himself away from her. “I’ll be right back,” he promises.

He isn’t gone long. Three minutes at most. Still, to Clarke, it’s an eternity spent fidgeting on the bed, keyed up and impatient for him to get back.

Finally, Bellamy comes in, locking the door behind him. His stare gleams with dark heat, matching the hunger that claws inside her. He kneels on the bed and his hands are careful, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Look, we don’t have to anything, okay? We can take it slow.”

Clarke snorts. She appreciates that he's being considerate, but she has no interest in going slow. She tugs Bellamy back where he belongs, on top of her, and reaches for his belt.

* * *

A content sigh escapes her. Clarke lays her head on Bellamy’s bare chest, snuggled into his warm side. Her muscles ache with a pleasant soreness. She never wants to move.

Bellamy’s fingers brush her neck, touching his necklace that rests above her breasts. He has a habit of doing that now, touching her neck with a possessiveness that she can’t get enough of.

“Sing me something,” Bellamy murmurs, interrupting the comfortable silence in his bedroom.

“What?” she asks, curious. “You have any requests?”

He smiles. “Whatever’s on your mind right now.” Bellamy nudges her temple with his nose, tickling her and making her laugh. “I've always wanted to get inside your head, Princess.”

Her mind is quiet. It's her heart that carries the music of their story. 

She sings him a song that’s been inside her for a long time, words that have never touched a page or been heard by anyone else. They're just for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thanks for reading ❤️ Love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> The lyrics in this chapter are from "No One Compares to You" by Jack & Jack.


End file.
